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COLLECTION 


THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 


BY  LEONARD   MERRICK 

THIS  STAGE  OF  FOOLS 

ONE  MAN'S  VIEW 

THE  POSITION  OF  PEGGY 

CONRAD  IN  QUEST  OF  HIS  YOUTH 

THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

WHISPERS  ABOUT  WOMEN 

THE  ACTOR-MANAGER 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  GOOD 

CYNTHIA 

At  all  booksellers 


THIS  STAGE  OF  FOOLS 


BY 

LEONARD    MERRICK 


MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

MCMXIII 


The  Laurels  and  the  Lady  I 

The  Back  of  Bohemia  79 

A  Weak  Imitation  99 

The  Life  They  Said  She  Ruined  113 

The  Girl  at  Lake  Lincoln  125 

The  Girl  with  the  Greek  Face  138 

With  Intent  to  Defraud  I58 

The  Body  and  Soul  of  Miss  Azulay  174 

In  Rerum  Natura  l$9 

A  Mere  Incident  197 

The  Social  See-saw  217 

"Fluffums"  233 

To  Miss  Verschoyle  259 

Posthumous  266 

Nemesis  27J 

A  Romance  of  a  Coffee-stall  276 

A  Reverie  281 


Copyright  1912  by 
Mitchell  Kennerley 


THIS   STAGE  OF   FOOLS 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY 


WHEN  Willy  Childers  was  sent  to  the  Cape,  he  went 
to  the  last  country  on  the  face  of  the  habitable 
globe  to  which  he  was  suited.  Certainly  it  is  a 
question  whether  he  would  have  made  a  success  of 
life  anywhere,  but  in  the  Cape  he  was  so  glaringly 
out  of  place  that  he  became  conspicuous.  In  Paris 
— when  he  had  learnt  the  language — he  would  at 
least  have  felt  at  home;  he  would  have  drifted  by 
degrees  into  a  congenial  set  in  London;  even  in 
New  York,  enthusiasm  and  diligence  may  discover 
an  artist  on  his  way  to  or  from  one  of  the  European 
steamers;  but  on  the  Diamond  Fields,  a  young  man 
who  hoped  to  be  a  poet,  and  who  did  write  verse, 
was  an  incongruity  that  defies  comparison. 

To  give  him  his  due,  he  was  conscious  that  his 

existence  was  absurd  there,  and  justified  the  chaff 

^  it   received,   and   he  loathed   the   "Fields"   with   a 

r  deeper  loathing  than  any  other  member  of  its  per- 

T 

764990 


2  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

spiring  population ;  but  he  could  not  go  to  the  length 
of  altering  his  nature,  and  becoming  brisk  and  enter- 
prising, nor  did  he  want  to  do  that.  It  was  not 
with  his  nature,  but  with  his  environment  he  found 
fault.  "Lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and  share," 
and  he  was  full  of  confidence  that  his  "mellow 
metres"  were  going  to  make  him  celebrated  one 
day.  He  would  rather  have  been  left  in  peace  with 
plenty  of  stationery  than  have  had  the  best  business 
of  any  broker  in  the  market. 

It  had  been  as  a  broker  that  he  commenced.  His 
uncle,  Blake  Somerset,  was  the  manager  of  the  For- 
tunatus  Mining  Company  in  Bultfontein,  and  when 
Willy  had  come  down  from  Oxford,  Somerset  had 
written  to  the  Dulwich  villa,  saying  that  the  uni- 
versity career  for  which  the  boy  had  begged  had 
been  "damned  folly,"  and  proposing  that,  now  it 
was  over,  his  nephew  should  come  out  to  South 
Africa  and  try  to  make  a  living. 

It  must  be  conceded  that  Willy  had  not  distin- 
guished himself  at  Oxford,  and  displayed  no  ability 
for  any  of  the  recognised  professions. 

None  the  less  he  was  inclined  to  regard  the  advice 
as  preposterous.  Dimly  he  had  had  visions  of  being 
called  to  the  Bar,  and  obtaining  pleasant  chambers 
where  he  could  write  poetry  all  day  without  being 
disturbed;  but  he  had  reckoned  without  his  mother, 
without  her  faith  in  her  brother's  judgment.  The 
letter  had  made  a  strong  impression  on  her  mind, 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  3 

and  at  the  idea  of  its  being  scouted  she  both  showed 
temper  and  shed  tears.  The  good  lady's  antecedents 
and  sympathies  were  commercial.  She,  too,  had  felt 
Brasenose  to  be  a  "folly" — indeed,  she  felt  the  adjec- 
tive which  as  a  lady  she  might  not  use;  and  the 
possession  of  a  son  who  seemed  contented  to  roam 
about  the  garden  with  a  book  of  Rossetti's,  or  Wal- 
ter Pater's,  and  who  confessed  that  he  did  not  know 
the  multiplication-table,  was  causing  her  consider- 
able disquietude.  She  wondered  if  there  had  been 
any  eccentricity  in  the  past  "on  poor  dear  Robert's 
side,"  and  it  had  skipped  a  generation  or  two.  One 
heard  of  such  things! 

Yes,  the  maternal  view  was  different  from  Willy's. 
She  retracted  her  suggestion  that  he  should  read 
for  the  Bar — it  had  been  but  a  half-hearted  com- 
promise when  she  made  it — and  declared  that  the 
Cape  offered  him  far  finer  prospects  in  every  way. 
Mentally  she  decided  it  was  just  the  plan  "to  take 
the  nonsense  out  of  him,"  and  she  answered  her 
brother  to  the  effect  that  his  nephew  would  sail  in 
two  or  three  weeks'  time,  though  she  refrained  from 
explaining  to  him  the  manner  of  young  man  his 
nephew  was. 

Somerset  was  not  long  in  finding  it  out.  He  him- 
self looked  like  a  farmer — or  what  one  expects  a 
farmer  to  look  like.  He  had  a  red  face,  and  a  loud 
laugh,  and  was  powerfully  framed.  His  biceps 
might  have  been  a  gymnast's.  Willy  was  a  disap- 


4  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

pointment  the  moment  he  alighted  from  the  train, 
being  slightly  built  and  consumptive-looking.  And 
rfe  had  no  conception  of  business :  that  was  evident 
in  their  initial  conversation.  Without  a  suspicion 
as  yet  of  the  young  fellow's  tendencies,  Somerset 
instinctively  felt  there  was  something  wrong  with 
him.  The  ignorance  of  things  he  ought  to  have 
known  might  be  excused  in  remembering  the  kind 
of  training  he  had  had;  but  there  was  something 
worse  than  ignorance  here:  there  seemed  to  be  a 
hint  of  incapacity.  Not  only  had  he  no  ideas  about 
making  money,  but  he  did  not  appear  interested 
or  intelligent  on  the  subject,  a  fact  which  promised 
no  brilliant  future  for  him,  considering  that  all  he 
would  have  at  the  widow's  death  was  three  or  four 
hundred  a  year. 

Nevertheless,  being  responsible  for  his  coming, 
Blake  Somerset  did  his  best  for  his  relation,  in  a 
rough  way. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  after  a  few  days,  "I  think 
broking  will  be  about  your  mark  here,  youngster. 
You  ought  to  earn  ten  or  twelve  pounds  a  week  at 
it,  if  you're  smart.  I'll  take  you  round  the  market 
to-morrow  and  introduce  you." 

Willy  expressed  himself  as  being  much  obliged. 

"What  do  I  do?"  he  inquired. 

"Do  ?  You  sell  the  stones !  You  go  into  the 
dealers'  offices  every  morning  and  ask  for  parcels, 
and  then  you  cut  about  into  all  the  other  dealers' 


and  show  'em.  It's  a  pity  you  don't  know  anything 
about  a  diamond,  but  you'll  soon  pick  a  smattering 
up.  And  you're  always  safe  to  say  'I've  a  nice  little 
lot  that  will  just  suit  you,'  even  if  it  won't." 

The  description  was  not  very  attractive  to  the 
Oxford  man,  but  being  already  uncomfortably  con- 
scious that  his  uncle  did  not  think  much  of  him,  he 
made  a  gallant  attempt  to  simulate  an  alacrity  he 
could  not  feel. 

The  introductions  were  duly  effected,  and,  having 
procured  a  license,  Willy  embarked  on  his  career 
as  a  diamond  broker  without  delay,  equipped  with 
a  morocco-leather  satchel  furnished  with  many  pock- 
ets, and  designed  to  carry  all  the  "parcels"  that 
should  be  entrusted  to  him. 

But  he  did  not  receive  any.  He  had  not  effront- 
ery enough.  When  he  made  his  applications  he 
always  asked  if  there  was  anything  for  him  as  briefly 
as  possible,  and  slunk  out  mortified  as  soon  as  the 
man  said  "no,"  though  he  did  not  fail  to  observe 
that  his  more  experienced  competitors  entered  with 
a  cheery  greeting,  an  air  of  confidence,  and  some- 
times "Such  a  good  story!  I  must  tell  you,  Mr. 
Meyerstein  I"  which  proved  much  more  effectual. 
Half  an  hour  after  the  market  opened  he  had  usu- 
ally repeated  his  dreary  formula  in  every  doorway 
in  the  street,  and  obtained  a  negative  in  all.  Then 
he  returned  to  his  hotel,  and  dreamed  of  fame  and 
England.  His  uncle,  hearing  of  his  speedy  retire- 


6  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

ment,  told  him  that  it  would  not  do.  If  he  wished 
to  succeed  he  must  remain  on  the  scene,  and  manage 
to  look  as  if  he  were  succeeding.  Willy,  with  a 
heavy  heart,  took  the  hint,  and  from  ten  o'clock  till 
four  henceforward,  with  the  thermometer  at  a  hun- 
dred degrees  in  the  shade,  he  bustled  round  and 
round  the  crooked  little  road,  flourishing  his  empty 
satchel  for  all  the  world  as  if  it  were  bursting  with 
brilliants.  But  this  assumption  of  doing  an  immense 
business  did  not  seem  to  impress  any  of  the  dealers, 
who  sat  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  gazing  through  the 
wide  windows  into  the  glare  of  sunshine  outside,  and 
they  always  replied  that  they  were  "not  sending  any- 
thing out  this  morning"  when  he  called  just  the 
same. 

At  length  Mr.  Somerset  wrote  to  his  sister  that 
he  thought  her  boy  had  better  return  to  Dulwich. 
He  said  wittily  that  there  was  "no  opening  on  the 
Fields  for  poets" — he  had  discovered  Willy's  bent 
by  this  time — and  warned  her  that  living  was  expen- 
sive there.  The  future  Laureate  would  loaf  more 
cheaply  at  home.  Mrs.  Childers  replied  that  she 
felt  such  surroundings  were  eminently  desirable  for 
the  formation  of  her  son's  character.  He  had  no 
father,  and  a  young  man  who  did  not  seem  to  have 
any  proper  ambition  would  be  a  great  responsibility 
for  her  to  cope  with  alone.  Perhaps  by-and-by  Blake 
might  be  able  to  put  him  into  "a  clerkship  or  some- 
thing" that  would  enable  him  to  keep  himself 


THE    LAURELS    AND   THE    LADY  7 

decently?  In  the  meanwhile  the  extra  expense  would 
not  amount  to  so  much  as  his  passage  would  cost. 
Somerset,  who  had  lost  all  interest  in  his  nephew, 
accordingly  looked  about,  and  presently  contrived 
to  obtain  him  a  post  as  desired.  This  being  done, 
he  washed  his  hands  of  him,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
and  Willy  went  into  the  Magistrate's  Court  at  Du 
Toits  Pan,  to  keep  the  Criminal  Record,  and  take 
affidavits  of  assault  and  other  offences,  at  a  salary 
of  three  pounds  a  week. 

That  was  two  years  ago,  and,  as  if  to  justify  the 
low  opinion  Mr.  Somerset  had  conceived  of  him,  he 
was  a  clerk  in  the  same  place  still. 

This  afternoon  he  was  sitting  at  his  accustomed 
desk  in  the  breathless  office,  watching  through  the 
bars  of  the  open  window  two  or  three  Kaffir  pris- 
oners in  charge  of  a  police  Serjeant,  waiting,  until 
their  names  should  be  called,  with  their  backs  against 
a  wall  and  their  feet  in  the  hot  dust.  Through  the 
door  which  communicated  with  the  shed-like  court 
he  could  hear  the  droning  tones  of  the  assistant 
magistrate  disposing  of  the  case  in  hand,  and  now 
the  voice  of  the  interpreter  shouting  "Jan  Sixpence ! 
Piccanini !  Tom  Fool  1"  proclaimed  that  it  was  over, 
and  that  the  turn  had  come  of  the  negroes  he  could 
see. 

The  Serjeant  gave  them  a  push,  and  they  moved 
forward  apathetically,  drawing  their  blankets  more 
closely  about  their  skinny  legs.  The  baking  wall 


8  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

and  the  dust  was  all  that  was  left  to  look  at.  Chil- 
ders  closed  his  eyes  wearily — his  sight  had  been 
troubling  him  of  late — and  leant  back  in  his  chair, 
wondering  if  life  had  any  surprises  in  store  for  him, 
if  anybody  else  on  earth  was  so  entirely  wretched. 

His  faith  in  himself  had  deserted  him  by  now, 
and  he  no  longer  foresaw  himself  a  celebrity.  He 
was  very  young  indeed  for  confidence  to  have  gone, 
but  he  was  not  naturally  self-reliant,  and  it  had  been 
chaffed  out  of  him.  Without  perceiving  it,  he  was 
at  this  stage  sick  with  an  exquisite  longing  for  sym- 
pathy— quite  the  last  thing  attainable  here.  In  truth, 
he  presented  the  most  pathetic  figure  the  world 
affords,  though  he  was  regarded  in  the  camp  as  cut- 
ting a  ludicrous  one,  for  he  experienced  all  the  emo- 
tions of  genius,  and  his  Vesuvius  brought  forth  a 
mouse;  he  was  in  temperament  an  artist,  and  in 
destiny  a  clerk.  His  verse  was  graceful;  at  times 
— much  more  rarely  than  he  knew — there  was  a 
flash  of  something  better  than  grace  in  it,  but  in 
the  force  to  set  him  free  from  the  environment  that 
was  crushing  him  it  was  wholly  lacking.  He  flapped 
feeble  wings,  like  Sterne's  starling  in  its  cage,  crying, 
"I  can't  get  out!" 

The  interpreter  brought  in  the  list  for  him  to 
enter  the  misdemeanours  and  sentences  in  the  record. 

"Good  afternoon,  Massa  Childers;  I'm  gwine 
home." 

"Good  afternoon,  Mukasa." 


THE    LAURELS    AND   THE    LADY  9 

II 

IT  was  a  quarter  to  five.  Released  from  the  bench, 
the  assistant  magistrate — a  young  man  with  a  pink- 
and-white  complexion,  who  had  grown  a  beard  in 
order  to  make  himself  look  older — consulted  his 
watch,  and  yawned. 

"Heigho,  poet!" 

"Are  you  tired,  sir?" 

"Tired  and  dry.  We'll  have  a  liquor  directly  we 
shut  the  shop,  shall  we?  By  the  way,  the  mail's  in." 

The  assistant  magistrate  was  always  among  the 
first  to  know  when  the  mail  was  in,  being  engaged 
to  a  girl  in  England.  Later  on  she  would  make  her 
home  here,  and  cry  to  be  back  in  Clapham. 

Childers  was  also  dimly  interested  in  the  arrival 
of  the  mail.  He  had  submitted  his  volume  of  poems 
four  months  since  to  the  only  firm  of  publishers  left 
for  it  to  go  to,  and  it  was  within  the  bounds  of  pos- 
sibility there  might  be  a  line  by  this  time  explaining 
the  grounds  of  its  rejection. 

"Are  they  delivering  yet?"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  hear,"  said  Mr.  Shepherd;  "my  letters 
always  come  to  the  club.  I  say,  are  you  going  to 
the  theatre  to-night?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it.  Of  course  I  shall  go 
some  evening  or  other;  but  I  expect  all  to-night's 
seats  are  gone." 

"No,  they  say  there  are  still  some  left  to  fight 


IO  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

for  at  the  doors.  All  the  best  ones  are  gone,  you 
bet — two  pounds  each!" 

"Great  Scot!     Better  than  clerking — eh,  sir?" 

"Better  than  trying  niggers  in  the  Pan,  too !"  said 
the  assistant  magistrate.  "Did  you  ever  see  her  at 
home?" 

Willy  shook  his  head. 

"Have  you^ 

"I  saw  her  once,  yes ;  in  my  last  holiday.  I  don't 
know  French,  but  I  shall  never  forget  it  as  long  as 
I  live.  She  is  the  greatest  actress  in  the  world, 
Childers,  and  no  kid.  She  turns  you  inside  out." 

"I  wish  she  played  in  English,"  said  Childers, 
filling  his  pipe;  "she  might  just  as  well — they  say 
she  speaks  it  quite  fluently.  Have  you  got  a  match, 
baas?" 

Rosa  Duchene  had  been  tempted  to  Kimberley. 
There  had  been  a  rumour  of  her  coming  the  year 
previous,  but  negotiations  had  fallen  through,  and 
a  fever  of  expectation  among  the  exiles,  subsiding 
in  disappointment,  had  been  forced  to  console  itself 
on  the  border  of  the  Orange  Free  State  with  a  prize- 
fight. Now  the  famous  tragedienne  had  actually 
arrived.  The  local  papers  had  been  teeming  for 
weeks  with  all  the  stock  anecdotes  about  her  which 
had  been  worn  threadbare  in  the  service  of  Paris 
and  London  a  decade  and  more  ago.  Her  eccen- 
tricities, her  extravagance,  her  pet  tiger-cub,  and 
her  eighty  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  costumes — the 


THE    LAURELS    AND   THE    LADY  II 

public  read  the  stones  all  over  again,  and  enjoyed 
them.  Such  of  the  "stores"  as  sold  photographs, 
had  crowded  their  windows  with  her  likenesses, 
and  the  walls  of  the  corrugated-iron  theatre,  and 
the  buffet  beside  it,  were  placarded  with  the  magi- 
cal name  of  Rosa  Duchene  in  letters  five  feet  long. 
Every  editor  on  the  Fields  had  rushed  in  person 
to  interview  her,  and  in  this  morning's  Independent 
three  leaded  columns  detailed  her  "Impressions"  of 
the  place,  which  she  had  artlessly  declared  struck 
her  as  containing  a  larger  number  of  handsome  men 
and  pretty  women  than  any  city  of  its  size  she  had 
seen.  Even  Rosa  Duchenes  cannot  afford  to  neglect 
such  "impressions." 

Willy  lit  his  pipe,  and  puffed  at  it  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  pleasurable  anticipation.  Yes,  he  would 
go  this  evening,  if  he  could  get  in !  It  would  be  an 
emotion  tasted  earlier  than  he  had  looked  for  it. 
Did  Mr.  Shepherd  intend  to  be  there? 

Ted  Shepherd  said  he  did.  The  five-shilling  seats 
were  quite  good  enough  for  him,  and  they  would  go 
together  if  Willy  pleased.  He  glanced  at  his  watch 
again,  and  started. 

"The  devil!"  he  exclaimed,  "we've  stopped  five 
minutes  too  long !  Come  on,  poet,  we'll  go  and  have 
that  drink!" 

They  picked  up  their  wideawakes  hurriedly,  and 
strolled  into  the  club. 

The  boy  behind  the  bar  had  fallen  asleep,  and 


12  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

was  dozing  as  peacefully  as  the  flies  would  let  him, 
for  work  in  the  mines  did  not  conclude  till  "sun- 
down," and  the  establishment  was  almost  deserted 
at  this  hour.  Only  a  digger,  whose  enterprise  had 
terminated  by  reason  of  exhausted  capital,  and  a 
law-agent  without  any  clients,  and  a  medical  man 
who  had  many  patients  but  seldom  received  his  fees, 
were  lolling  about. 

The  civil  servants  had  brandy-and-sodas,  and  the 
assistant  magistrate  played  with  the  dice-box. 

"I'll  shake  you  who  pays  for  both  to-night,  if 
you  like,  poet,"  he  said. 

Childers  nodded,  and  won,  and  ordered  fresh 
brandy-and-sodas  to  celebrate  his  victory. 

They  had  scarcely  swallowed  them  when  they 
became  aware  of  an  angry  mutter  mingling  with 
the  whir  of  the  buckets  and  the  throbbing  of  engines 
across  the  road,  a  clamour  of  impatient  voices.  The 
digger,  who  was  looking  at  a  picture  of  Hyde  Park 
Corner  in  the  Illustrated  London  News,  and  wonder- 
ing how  long  it  would  be  before  he  saw  the  original 
again,  became  aware  of  it  also,  and  dropped  the 
paper  with  a  show  of  apprehension. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  about  me"  he  said,  turning 
rather  pale.  "This  is  very  awkward." 

"What's  wrong,  Johnny?"  asked  Shepherd. 

"It's  the  'boys,'  I  expect!  You  see,  I  couldn't 
pay  them  this  morning;  they'll  hammer  me  if  they 
get  the  chancel" 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  13 

Childers  went  to  the  door,  followed  by  everybody 
excepting  Johnny  Teale.  A  gang  of  some  fifty  nig- 
gers, Zulus,  Kaffirs,  and  Basutos,  of  all  ages,  had 
surged  to  the  foot  of  the  stoep — a  low,  gravelled 
veranda  before  the  club — and  were  demanding  their 
wages  or  Mr.  Teale's  blood. 

"It  is  the  'boys,'  "  said  Willy. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  tip  'em  some  of  your  verses, 
poet,  and  calm  'em  down !" 

"Why  don't  you  pay  the  beggars?"  said  the  law- 
agent,  turning. 

"Pay  'em?"  echoed  the  ex-lessee  of  the  Mooi  Klip 
Mining  Company.  "That  accursed  ground  hasn't 
yielded  working  expenses  for  weeks.  Pay  'em?  Do 
you  think  I'm  the  Standard  Bank?" 

The  doctor  exhorted  him  to  come  forward,  and 
he  came  gingerly.  His  appearance  was  greeted  with 
loud  yells,  and  a  hundred  naked  arms  were  lifted  in 
execration  and  appeal.  There  was  a  touch  of  dig- 
nity, even  of  tragedy,  in  the  instinctive  way  the 
African  negroes  lifted  their  arms  that  would  have 
gladdened  a  London  super-master's  heart.  Pres- 
ently, however,  by  dint  of  fervid  promises  which  he 
had  no  prospect  of  being  able  to  fulfil,  Teale  suc- 
ceeded in  inducing  the  posse  to  depart,  and,  this 
consummation  attained,  dragged  his  supporters  to 
the  bar  jubilantly. 

Childers  was  not  among  them.  He  made  his  way 
instead  through  the  dust  and  ox-wagons  on  the  Mar- 


14  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

ket  Square  to  the  post-office,  only  to  find  the  pub- 
lishers had  still  not  written,  and  then,  retracing  his 
steps,  went  into  his  room  to  lie  down.  His  eyes 
were  paining  him  badly,  and  he  was  sure  that  he 
saw  even  less  clearly  than  he  had  done.  The  doctor 
had  told  him  the  trouble  was  caused  by  his  "general 
condition,"  and  advised  him  to  rest  his  sight  as  much 
as  possible.  He  had  obeyed,  but  rest  did  not  seem 
to  improve  it,  nor  had  the  lotion  or  the  tonic  done 
any  good. 

Soon  afterwards  a  scream  of  whistles  piercing  the 
air  on  all  sides  announced  that  the  principal  industry 
of  the  camp  was  suspended  for  the  day,  and  now 
men  poured  up  from  the  mines  in  shoals,  to  wash, 
and  dine,  and  to  exchange — to-night — their  bedford- 
cords  and  loose  jackets  for  the  dress-suits  which  were 
relics  of  a  European  past. 

In  Kimberley,  dress-suits  were  donned  more  fre- 
quently, but  Kimberley  was  three  miles  distant  from 
Du  Toits  Pan,  and,  by  comparison,  quite  fashion- 
able. There  were  even  men  in  Kimberley  who  wore 
stand-up  collars  and  billy-cock  hats  every  day  in  the 
week.  And  the  theatre  was  there.  Du  Toits  Pan 
had  nothing  except  a  tin  chapel  and  a  curate,  who, 
it  was  supposed,  preached  in  it.  Nobody  had  been 
inside  to  ascertain. 

It  was  early  when  Childers  and  his  chief  met 
again,  and  drove  into  the  larger  township,  as 
arranged,  but  a  respectable  crowd  had  collected  un- 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  15 

der  the  electric  lamps  of  the  Main  Street  already, 
and  when  the  doors  opened,  and  the  pair  at  length 
gained  seats,  they  squeezed  themselves  into  them 
battered  and  breathless. 

A  long  procession  of  "carts"  sped  over  the  bare 
connecting  road  in  the  next  half-hour,  and,  reaching 
the  "Rush,"  was  momentarily  reinforced.  Compar- 
atively small  as  the  theatre  was,  it  appeared  to  those 
in  it  to  contain  the  entire  population  of  all  the  camps. 
Not  a  familiar  face  seemed  missing,  and  further 
recognitions  followed  at  every  turn  of  the  head. 
When  the  orchestra  came  in,  the  house  looked  like 
a  hill  of  white  arms  and  bosoms  and  shining  shirt- 
fronts.  A  novel  and  agreeable  flutter  of  suspense 
stole  through  the  audience,  and  by  a  common  impulse 
women  glanced  and  smiled  towards  one  another  with 
little,  excited  nods.  Many  had  forgotten  for  the 
instant  where  they  were,  and  in  fancy  were  trans- 
ported to  the  Frangais  or  the  Gaiety,  where  they 
had  seen  Duchene  last. 

Some  touch  of  the  electric  current  communicated 
itself  to  Childers  upstairs,  and  when  the  three  por- 
tentous knocks  sounded  he  leant  forward  eagerly. 
The  piece  was  La  Dame  aux  Camelias.  It  begins, 
as  all  the  world  knows,  with  a  conversation  between 
De  Varville,  who  stands  with  his  back  to  the  fine, 
and  the  maid.  Childers  strove  in  vain  to  follow  it. 
With  the  plot  he  was  acquainted,  but  the  dialogue 
he  could  not  understand, 


1 6  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

The  house  was  not  very  attentive.  Many  there 
did  not  understand  it  either,  or  understood  it  merely 
from  a  knowledge  of  the  English  version.  They 
were  impatient  to  behold  Duchene — Duchene,  who 
had  had  the  temerity  to  sign  an  engagement  for  this 
Heaven-forsaken  desert. 

There  was  the  entrance  of  Nichette ;  De  Varville's 
comment  on  her  name;  and  at  length  the  expected 
peal  of  the  bell,  and  the  servant's  exclamation,  "C'est 
mad'moiselle !" 

She  came  on  in  her  best  style — while  the  women 
present  caught  their  breath  at  her  gown — affecting 
unconsciousness  that  an  audience  was  criticising  her. 
But  they  would  not  have  it — they  were  too  grateful 
to  her.  The  applause  broke  out  vociferous  and 
sustained.  The  "Diamond  Fields"  was  welcoming 
the  only  important  actress  who  had  come  to  bless 
them,  and  it  was  a  minute  and  a  half  before  she 
could  speak  her  first  line. 

As  the  act  proceeded,  Childers  found  his  throat 
tightening  queerly.  The  story  has  been  as  well 
abused  as  any  ever  penned,  but  sickly,  unhealthy, 
morbid,  or  not,  it  is  a  story  that  appeals  to  almost 
every  imaginative  young  man  who  is  born.  It  fas- 
cinates him  strongly  as  it  unfolds;  perhaps  he,  too, 
may  one  day  meet  a  Marguerite — in  secret  he  has 
often  wished  to  do  so!  And  he  identifies  himself 
with  its  hero,  who  is  so  splendid  in  his  romance 
and  passion  on  the  stage,  and  in  the  book,  by  his 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  17 

own  confession,  as  arrant  a  cad  as  ever  escaped  hav- 
ing his  head  punched.  It  has  an  infinitely  greater 
recommendation  from  a  theatrical  point  of  view — 
it  is  an  opportunity  for  a  leading  actress  which  few 
modern  dramas  equal,  and  to-night  Duchene,  who 
had  carefully  selected  it  for  her  opening  perform- 
ance, availed  herself  of  the  opportunity  to  the 
fullest. 

She  was  at  this  time  nearly  forty  years  of  age, 
but  behind  the  footlights  she  did  not  look  a  day 
more  than  twenty-five.  Her  grace,  her  power,  the 
tricks — which  in  their  apparent  spontaneity  con- 
cealed such  cleverness  that  it  demanded  a  fellow- 
player  to  appreciate  them  as  they  deserved — took 
one  novice  among  the  spectators  by  storm.  At  the 
end  of  the  second  act  he  felt  he  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  revelation.  In  the  third,  the  tears  were  drip- 
ping down  his  face,  and  he  tried  furtively  to  wipe 
them  away  with  a  corner  of  the  programme,  afraid 
that  Shepherd  would  ridicule  him. 

The  result  of  Willy  Childers'  going  to  see  Rosa 
Duchene  was  really  a  foregone  conclusion;  gunpow- 
der had  met  the  spark,  and  only  one  thing  could 
happen.  A  poet — that  he  was  a  pseudo  poet  mat- 
ters very  little — who  had  been  eating  his  heart  out 
on  the  Diamond  Fields  was  confronted  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  with  a  beautiful  woman  who  was  a 
genius.  When  the  play  was  over,  and  the  people 
rose  and  screamed  at  her,  Willy  did  not  scream; 


1 8  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

he  kept  his  seat,  quivering  hysterically.  He  was 
wrenched  by  the  death  he  had  witnessed;  the  agony 
of  the  lover's  cry  was  in  his  own  soul.  He  wanted 
to  walk  away  somewhere  alone.  The  companion- 
ship of  Shepherd  was  torture  to  him,  and  he  thought 
he  would  have  given  anything  that  could  be  named 
to  be  able  to  go  to  her  and  stammer  out  all  that  she 
had  made  him  feel  at  her  feet. 

Reduced  to  words,  such  exaltation  is  apt  to  sound 
very  absurd,  but,  closely  examined,  there  is  much 
less  absurd  in  it  than  there  seems.  After  the  illu- 
sion of  intimate  confidence  created  by  sympathising 
with  a  great  actress  through  the  range  of  emotions 
she  represents — laughing  with  her  laughter,  and 
grieving  with  her  when  she  grieves — one  leaves  the 
theatre  having  seen  nothing  of  her  real  nature  at 
all.  But  has  one  been  shown  much  more  of  the 
young  girl's,  dressed  in  her  best,  with  whom  one 
falls  in  love  at  a  dance?  Both  say  things  that  are 
not  natural  to  them  through  the  evening,  and  the 
actress's  pretence  has,  at  least,  suggested  a  disposi- 
tion quite  as  adorable.  One  man  would  like  to  ask 
her  to  supper;  another  would  make  of  her  an  ideal 
and  an  inspiration.  It  is  a  matter  of  temperament — 
which  the  fact  that  the  actress  would  probably  pre- 
fer the  supper  does  not  affect. 

He  escaped  from  Shepherd,  and  taking  up  a 
position  by  the  stage-door,  waited  there  in  the  hope 
of  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  her  when  she  left.  The 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE    LADY  19 

hope  was  not  fulfilled,  and  she  must  have  come  out 
by  another  exit. 

The  intense  dry  heat  and  the  sun's  blinding  glare 
had  been  replaced  by  a  faint  breeze,  and  as  he  drove 
home  his  mind  span  more  quickly  for  its  freshness 
and  the  rapid  motion  of  the  "cart."  He  thought 
again  of  his  volume  of  verse  at  the  London  pub- 
lishers', and  saw  it  accepted  and  successful.  An 
unfamiliar  excitement  throbbed  in  his  veins,  and  his 
imagination  mounted  beyond  control,  like  a  night- 
ingale's voice,  playing  all  sorts  of  pranks,  unexpected 
and  delightful,  till  it  seemed  lifting  him  into  heaven 
itself. 

It  was  only  when  the  horses  stopped  that  he  per- 
ceived the  lengths  to  which  his  illusion  had  carried 
him.  From  the  stagnant  "pan"  came  the  croaking 
of  frogs  and  the  howling  of  innumerable  stray  curs. 
The  mine  yawned  deeply  in  the  night,  and,  like  gal- 
lows, the  skeleton  erections  round  the  reef  rose 
blackly  against  a  luminous  sky.  The  click  of  billiard 
balls  and  a  jingle  of  glasses  issued  from  the  club, 
but  he  did  not  go  in.  Something  restrained  him. 


Ill 


SHEPHERD  was  the  first  to  suspect  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. Probably  because  he  saw  more  of  Childers  than 
anybody  else  did;  possibly  because  incriminating 


20  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

compositions  fell  under  his  notice  on  the  Govern- 
ment stationery — indeed,  it  is  understood  that  the 
girl  in  Clapham  received  a  tribute  in  verse  from 
the  assistant  magistrate  about  this  date ; — anyhow  it 
was  suspected,  and  Childers'  reception  of  the  tenta- 
tive chaff  was  as  damning  as  a  plain  acknowledg- 
ment. And  much  more  comical !  It  was  voted  alto- 
gether the  most  comical  thing  "the  poet"  could  have 
'done.  "Childers  in  love,"  pure  and  simple,  would 
have  been  an  amusing  object,  but  Willy  Childers 
and  Rosa  Duchene  was  an  antithesis  that  tickled  the 
risible  faculties  of  Du  Toits  Pan  to  an  extent  wholly 
uncontrollable.  It  became  the  favourite  pastime  of 
the  "Club"  to  lure  him  into  the  smoking-room  and 
invent  anecdotes  about  his  divinity.  He  was  old 
enough  to  have  forgotten  how  to  blush,  but  he  had 
a  marvellous  capacity  that  way,  and  his  face,  while 
the  stories  were  told,  supplied  them  with  a  super- 
fluous sauce  piquante.  And  cartoons  were  made  of 
him,  and  pasted  on  the  wall.  In  one  he  sang — 

"Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet, 
All  I  can  give  you,  I  give;" 

and  was  depicted  on  his  knees  to  the  actress,  with 
an  ode  in  one  hand  and  a  child's  money-box  in  the 
other.  Life  was  made  in  various  ways  a  burden 
to  him,  though  no  one  meant  any  wrong  by  the 
raillery.  "Good  morning;  have  you  been  to  the 
theatre,  Childers?"  became  the  stock  joke,  a  catch- 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  21 

word  with  which  he  was  greeted  each  day  by  every- 
body; and  when  he  did  go  now,  he  slunk  in  late, 
and  hid  himself  at  the  back  of  the  gallery  from 
sheer  shame. 

It  was  when  three  weeks  of  Duchene's  season  of 
six  had  expired  that  the  epidemic  of  chaff  stopped; 
and  it  stopped  with  suddenness.  Men  spoke,  of 
Willy  Childers  for  the  first  time  in  a  tone  of  grav- 
ity. One  morning  he  had  not  appeared  at  the 
Magistrate's  Court;  he  sent  instead  a  few  lines  in 
a  painful,  sprawling  hand,  to  say  that  his  sight  was 
much  worse — he  was  "afraid  it  was  serious;"  and 
a  few  days  after  that  the  news  circulated  that  he  had 
gone  blind. 

In  improving  tales,  when  the  misunderstood  boy 
goes  blind,  all  his  acquaintances  reproach  themselves 
for  their  cruelty  towards  him,  and  flock  to  his  "sim- 
ple parlour"  to  listen  to  him  talking  like  a  tract, 
and  derive  a  lasting  moral  from  the  patience  he 
displays.  It  did  not  happen  like  that  in  Willy 
Childers'  case,  because  none  of  the  fellows  had  the 
faintest  idea  they  had  shown  any  cruelty,  and,  with 
the  exception  of  Ted  Shepherd  and  one  or  two  other 
very  occasional  visitors,  he  may  be  said  to  have 
passed  his  time  in  unbroken  solitude. 

It  was,  of  course,  useless  for  him  to  remain  on 
the  Fields  any  longer,  and  Somerset,  who  was  going 
to  England  for  a  brief  holiday,  in  a  few  months' 
time,  had  arranged  to  take  him  home  then,  when  a 


22  THIS   STAGE  OF   FOOLS 

good  opinion  could  be  obtained,  and  perhaps  an 
operation  performed.  In  the  meanwhile  he  was 
removed  to  the  manager's  cottage  on  the  Fortuna- 
tus  works,  where  a  Kaffir  went  down  to  the  Car- 
narvon Hotel  to  fetch  his  meals,  and  his  uncle  came, 
to  sleep,  between  the  hours  of  the  club's  closing  at 
night  and  "sun-up"  each  morning.  No  language  that 
could  be  employed  could  do  anything  like  justice  to 
the  loneliness  of  his  position  there — to  his  helpless, 
hopeless  misery.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  may 
only  be  imagined.  He  had  no  one  to  talk  to;  he 
knew  none  of  the  pursuits  by  which  the  blind  con- 
trive, after  years,  to  occupy  themselves.  He  could 
only  think,  and  compose  verse  in  his  head,  while  he 
sat  passive  in  the  blazing  iron  shanty,  listening  to 
the  clamour  of  the  machinery  through  the  day,  or 
the  crooning  of  the  Kaffirs,  crouching  round  their 
bonfires  when  the  moon  rose.  And  in  this  fashion 
a  fortnight  wore  itself  past. 

Johnny  Teale  was  the  man!  Others  participated, 
and  so  were  guilty — among  them  Blake  Somerset — 
but  Johnny  Teale  was  the  man  who  suggested  the 
trick,  let  it  be  stated !  There  was  a  girl  in  the  Rush 
in  those  days  popularly  referred  to  as  Poll  Pat- 
chouli; she  had  opened  a  shop  at  the  back  of  the 
Diamond  Market,  where  she  sold  bad  scent,  after 
she  left  the  "Ladies'  Orchestra,"  in  which  she  had 
come  to  the  Fields  from  Natal.  What  her  name 
was  really,  was  not  known.  She  called  herself  Olive 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE   LADY  23 

Esmond,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She 
was  not  considered  pretty;  she  was,  in  fact,  thought 
remarkably  plain,  even  in  a  country  where  men  are 
not  exacting  in  the  matter  of  feminine  attractions, 
and  a  little  comeliness  goes  a  long  way.  She  was, 
however,  an  amusing  girl,  and  educated,  in  a  style; 
and  a  fortnight  after  Childers'  retirement  to  the 
cottage  opposite  the  Fortunatus  tailings-heap,  it 
transpired  that  she  had  a  singular  accomplishment: 
she  could  imitate  Rosa  Duchene  to  the  life.  She 
did  it  so  well,  said  an  enthusiast  who  had  heard  her, 
that  she  might  have  obtained  an  engagement  for  it 
at  Home  at  a  music-hall.  He  said  more — he  said 
you  could  have  shut  your  eyes,  and  sworn  Duchene 
was  speaking. 

It  was  precisely  this  criticism  that  gave  Johnny 
Teale  his  idea.  If  you  could  shut  your  eyes  and 
think  Duchene  was  speaking,  she  might  be  presented 
to  a  blind  man  as  Duchene  herself. 

The  group  to  which  he  propounded  it  did  hesitate. 
They  objected  that  it  would  be  blackguardly  to  play 
tricks  with  Childers  now,  and  demurred  a  good  deal 
in  an  irresolute  way;  but  Teale  set  himself  to  argue 
their  scruples  into  thin  air.  For  Childers  to  have 
a  conversation  with  Polly  under  the  impression  she 
was  the  actress  "would  not  do  the  poor  chap  any 
harm,"  he  insisted — on  the  contrary,  it  would  give 
him  an  immense  pleasure;  and  as  to  the  humour  of 
the  "sell" — well,  he  would  defy  anybody  to  assert 


24  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

that  a  practical  joke  of  such  magnitude  had  been 
perpetrated  in  the  camp  from  the  earliest  days! 

That  was  true,  and  a  colossal  temptation. 

Demonstrating  that  the  victim  never  need  know; 
that  no  disappointment  was  entailed;  that  the  chat 
would  be  no  less  delightful  because  the  happiness 
was  illusory,  he  at  length  carried  his  point,  and  Polly 
was  interviewed  and  coached.  A  deputation  went 
up  to  Kimberley  to  see  her. 

"We  want  you  to  help  us  in  a  tremendous  spoof, 
Polly,"  they  said  in  a  breath.  "You've  heard  of 
Willy  Childers?" 

No,  she  had  not  heard  of  him;  who  was  he? 

"Well,  he  thinks  he's  a  poet,  and  he  has  lost  his 
sight,  and  he's  in  love  with  Duchene,"  explained 
Teale.  "Now,  we  want  to  tell  him  we're  going  to 
introduce  him  to  her,  and  then  bring  him  to  you — 
do  you  see?  He'll  make  as  violent  love  to  you  as 
he  knows  how,  and  you're  to  pretend  to  be  awfully 
taken  with  him,  and  kid  him  on — do  you  see?  Of 
course  you'll  talk  all  the  time  like  Duchene,  and  end 
by  vowing  he's  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  you; 
and  we — two  or  three  of  us — will  be  hidden  about 
the  place  somewhere,  watching  the  game — do  you 
see?  You  know!  Do  you  think  you  can  do  it?" 

The  girl  laughed.  She  was  not  disgusted  by  the 
infamous  taste  of  the  project;  it  struck  her  as  being 
an  uncommonly  funny  one. 

"You  may  bet  all  you've  got  I  can  do  it,"  she 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  25 

said;  "rather!  oh,  by  Jove,  what  a  lark!  When  will 
you  bring  him,  boys?" 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be  carried  out  artistically,"  said 
Teale;  "one  of  us  must  go  and  mention  that  he  has 
met  her,  and  then,  very  kindly,  say  he'll  try  to  obtain 
her  permission  to  present  Childers  to  her.  He's 
simple  enough,  but  it  won't  do  to  rush  the  thing 
through  as  if  it  were  quite  easy;  he  might  smell  a 
rat.  Say  Thursday,  eh?" 

"All  right,"  said  Polly,  "Thursday;  that'll  do! 
Is  he  really  'gone'  about  her?  I  mean  'wild'?" 

"Some!  He'll  tell  you  you're  a  genius  and  an 
angel,  you  see !" 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  again,  and 
the  deputation  joined  her. 

"It'll  be  the  biggest  joke  that  was  ever  worked," 
she  exclaimed;  "I  shall  enjoy  it!" 

No  time  was  lost  in  acquainting  Willy  with  the 
possible  privilege  in  store  for  him,  and  the  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  into  which  he  broke  made  the 
conspirators  feel  almost  as  despicable  for  a  moment 
as  they  really  were. 

Two  days  later,  having  left  him  the  while  in  a 
state  of  suspense  that  bordered  upon  fever,  Teale 
announced  that  Duchene  had  consented  to  receive 
him  in  the  company  of  Ted  Shepherd  and  himself 
on  the  following  afternoon.  Half  a  dozen  other 
spectators  of  the  farce  were  to  be  concealed. 

"I  told  her  you  wrote  poetry,"  he  said,  "and — 


26  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

er — a  good  deal  about  you.  It  was  rather  cheek 
of  me  to  make  the  request,  considering  I'd  only  met 
her  once  myself,  but  I  wanted  to  do  you  a  turn, 
sonny,  and,  after  all,  'nothing  venture,  nothing  have,' 
you  know!" 

Willy,  who  was  trembling,  groped  for  his  hand, 
and  pressed  it  when  it  was  forthcoming. 

Indeed,  he  could  scarcely  realise  that  this  bewil- 
dering thing  had  befallen  him.  It  was  actual — 
actual!  he  had  to  repeat  it.  To  sit  next  to  Rosa 
Duchene  and  have  her  talk  to  him,  even  though  he 
could  no  longer  see  her,  was  a  prospect  that  beat 
through  his  consciousness  in  sick,  almost  terrifying 
throbs.  It  prevented  him  sleeping  ten  minutes  dur- 
ing the  night,  and  he  passed  the  long  morning  wait- 
ing and  praying  to  hear  each  hour  strike  on  the  little 
American  clock  he  had  bought  to  let  him  know  how 
the  time  went  since  his  watch  became  useless  for 
the  purppse.  When  Teale  and  the  assistant  magis- 
trate arrived  at  length,  and  guided  him  up  into  the 
"cart,"  the  effort  of  replying  to  their  questions  was 
a  pain,  and  it  was  a  physical  relief  when  conversation 
ceased  and  he  could  lapse  into  silence.  The  same 
tightness  in  breathing  that  he  experienced  in  the 
theatre  was  mastering  him,  and  the  clip  clop  sound 
of  the  horses'  hoofs  as  they  sped  along  the  road 
seemed  raising  echoes  in  his  inside. 

The  hotel  to  which  they  were  bound  was  not  the 
Queen's,  where  Duchene  was  in  reality  staying,  but 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  27 

a  third-rate  one  called  the  Royal,  and  his  compan- 
ions had  misgivings  lest  he  should  detect  the  dif- 
ference in  the  route.  On  reaching  Kimberley,  Johnny 
Teale  began  talking  again  eagerly,  to  distract  his  at- 
tention; but  it  was  taking  unnecessary  trouble.  His 
affliction  was  too  recent,  and  his  excitement  too 
great,  for  the  dupe  to  have  such  acuteness  of 
perception. 

The  driver  stopped,  and  Shepherd,  who  had 
agreed  to  come  rather  to  see  that  the  deception  was 
not  carried  too  far,  than  because  he  looked  forward 
to  being  amused  by  it,  helped  the  blind  man  down, 
with  his  pink-and-white  complexion  pinker  than 
usual. 

They  were  met  in  the  hall  by  a  Kaffir  servant,  who 
had  been  carefully  rehearsed  in  his  part.  He 
showed  all  his  teeth  in  a  grin  of  appreciation. 

"Is  Madame  Duchene  in?"  said  Teale.  "We  are 
expected."  Men  do  not  carry  visiting-cards  on  the 
Fields,  and  he  sent  up  their  names. 

The  negro  disappeared,  and  returned  after  a  few 
minutes  to  conduct  them  into  a  bare  apartment  on 
the  ground  floor,  opening  on  to  a  stoep  and  a  back 
yard.  A  small  bedstead  was  at  one  end,  with  a 
washhand-stand  at  the  foot.  The  rest  of  the  furni- 
ture consisted  of  a  chest-of-drawers,  a  chintz-covered 
couch,  and  a  couple  of  basket-chairs.  For  decora- 
tions, a  few  coloured  plates  from  the  summer  num- 


28  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

bers  of  the  English  illustrated  papers  had  been 
pasted  on  the  walls. 

"Madame  Duchene  soon  come,"  he  said  respect- 
fully; "please  wait,  baas."  Then  he  doubled  him- 
self up  with  silent  ecstasy,  and  pointed  to  the  win- 
dow. Half  a  dozen  bearded  faces  were  welcoming 
them  behind  it;  half  a  dozen  arms  waved  wildly  in 
the  air. 

"Great  Scot!"  exclaimed  Teale,  as  the  waiter  re- 
tired, "We  are  in  a  drawing-room  again,  eh?"  He 
emitted  a  soft  whistle  expressive  of  admiration  and 
astonishment.  "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Shepherd,  confusedly. 

Teale  nudged  him  and  frowned. 

"  'All  right'?"  he  echoed.  "Well,  I  don't  know 
what  you  were  used  to,  my  boy,  but  it's  about  as  fine 
as  anything  7  ever  saw !  Look  at  that  embroidery, 

and  those  ivory  things  over  there,  and Why, 

the  woman  must  be  mad  to  cart  such  belongings 
about  the  world  with  her !" 

"What's  it  like?"  asked  Childers,  in  a  low,  breath- 
less voice. 

"It's  Oriental,"  said  Teale;  "shouldn't  you  call  it 
'Oriental,'  Shepherd?  Jove!  I  should  like  to  see 
her  flat  in  Paris,  if  this  is  the  style  of  makeshift  she 
goes  in  for  for  six  weeks!  What  is  that  curious 
odour;  don't  you  notice  it?" 

It  was  a  pastille  that  had  been  set  burning  in  the 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  29 

soap  dish  on  the  mottled  mantelpiece.  He  affected 
to  explore  for  it  among  countless  treasures. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said;  "in  this  swinging  affair  in 
the  alcove  among  the  palms!  Why  does  she  keep 
her  rooms  so  dark,  I  wonder;  do  you  like  this  sub- 
dued, cathedrally  sort  of  light?  Take  care!  Don't 
move,  Childers,  or  you'll  tumble  over  a  silver  idol  on 
the  floor  near  you !  Stupid  place  to  put  it !  Hark !" 

There  was  a  woman's  step  in  the  passage,  and  as 
they  caught  it,  Willy  turned  a  dead  white.  The 
group  outside,  who  could  see  but  not  hear,  puffed 
their  cigarettes  and  continued  to  stare  in  curiously. 

"Here  she  is,"  murmured  Shepherd;  "stand  up, 
boy!" 

Childers  obeyed  as  the  door  opened,  and  Polly 
came  in. 

IV 

"GOOD  afternoon,  gentlemen,"  she  said  languidly. 
"Ah,  monsieur,  be  seated,  I  beg!" 

Her  "monsieur"  was  the  only  false  note,  and  of 
that  he  was  no  judge.  Every  pulse  in  his  body  leapt 
at  her  entrance;  every  nerve  in  him  quickened  with 
the  rustle  of  her  cheap,  little  frock  across  the  floor. 
To  him  it  was  brocade  of  a  mysterious  rose  tint,  and 
there  was  old  lace  upon  her  bosom. 

She  sank  into  one  of  the  basket-chairs,  and  looked 
towards  his  companions  for  their  approval,  with  her 
tongue  in  her  cheek. 


30  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  she  said;  "your 
friends  have  spoken  about  you  to  me." 

"You  see  one  of  your  most  ardent  admirers, 
madame,"  said  Teale,  "and  a  poet.  I'm  half  afraid 
that  Mr.  Shepherd  and  I  are  in  the  way  at  the  meet- 
ing of  two  artists." 

Childers  lifted  his  hand  in  discomfiture. 

"Don't  make  me  absurd,"  he  stammered;  "don't 
laugh  at  me,  madame!  I  am  not  an  artist,  I  only 
hoped  to  be  one.  But  I  am  grateful — oh,  ever  so 
grateful — for  your  letting  me  come  here.  To  have 
spoken  to  you  will  be  something  to  remember  all  my 
life!" 

The  girl  showed  her  teeth  almost  as  widely  as  the 
negro  had  done. 

"You  are  very — very — what  is  the  word  in  Eng- 
lish?— complimentary!" — she  drawled.  "You  must 
not  make  me  vain,  you  know!  And  you  are  too 
modest  also — is  it  not  so,  Mr.  Teale?  I  am  told 
your  poems  are  quite  charming." 

Even  Shepherd  permitted  himself  a  smile;  she 
was  doing  it  superbly.  The  spectators  at  the  window 
pushed  against  one  another,  excited  and  inquiring. 

"Will  you  not  recite  one  to  me?"  she  asked. 

"Bravo!"  put  in  Teale,  "the  very  thing!  Go  on, 
Childers;  let  madame  hear  something  you  have 
done." 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Willy.  "Forgive  me  that, 
madame;  I  couldn't,  indeed!" 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  31 

"In  Paris,"  said  Polly,  "many  poets  recite  their 
verses  to  me.  Yes,  truly,  you  are  too  modest,  mon- 
sieur! Well,  as  you  please;  then  let  us  talk!  You 
are  fond  of  the  theatre,  eh?" 

He  bowed.  "Passionately  of  late !"  he  answered 
awkwardly. 

"Aha !"  she  cried,  "but  he  can  make  pretty 
speeches,  too,  our  modest  poet!  You,  Mr.  Teale, 
have  not  said  anything  so  nice  to  me !  But  perhaps 
you  do  not  feel  it,  either?" 

"Everybody  raves  about  Madame  Duchene,"  ob- 
served Shepherd,  "Mr.  Teale  and  I  among  the  rest." 

He  caught  signals  from  the  onlookers,  and  drew 
Johnny  Teale's  attention  to  them.  They  were  grow- 
ing impatient  out  there.  The  dialogue  was  lost  upon 
them,  and  viewed  as  a  pantomime  the  scene  was 
dull.  Polly  saw  the  gestures,  too,  and  shook  her  fist 
at  the  crowd  as  an  enjoinder  to  be  still. 

"To-night,"  she  resumed,  "I  play  one  of  my 
favourite  roles — Marguerite." 

In  point  of  fact  she  was  mistaken :  Duchene  played 
Frou-Frou ;  but  Willy  could  not  read  the  newspapers 
any  more. 

"I  have  seen  you  in  it,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  was 
at  your  first  performance.  I  shall  never  see  you  in 
it  again!" 

"Why?"  she  said. 

He  flushed  crimson. 

"I  said  'see' — I  cannot  see  you  at  all." 


32  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"How  long  have  you  been  like  this?"  asked  the 
girl,  deprecatingly. 

"Nearly  three  weeks.    It  seems " 

"It  seems  a  year,  I  suppose?    It  must!" 

"Yes,"  said  Childers,  "it  seems  much  longer  than 
it  is.  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  used  to  it  by-and-by,  but 
every  day  is  a  long  while  at  first;  I'm  all  alone,  and 
there's  nothing  to  do." 

"It  must  be  awful !"  she  murmured. 

"Mr.  Childers  is  going  Home  very  soon,"  said 
Shepherd,  "and  then  all  of  us  poor  beggars  will  be 
jealous  of  him." 

"You  and  he  may  meet  in  London,  madame," 
added  Teale.  "You'll  go  to  the  theatre  next  time 
Madame  Duchene  plays  in  London,  won't  you,  Chil- 
ders? Perhaps  she'll  allow  you  to  call  on  her  there, 
too?" 

Polly  shifted  her  chair  irritably. 

"Will  you  be  able  to  go  about  in  London,  Mr. 
Childers?"  she  inquired. 

"I  do  not  know  many  people  in  England,"  he 
said.  "I  am  afraid  not.  I  shall  be  in  Dulwich,  with 
my  mother." 

"But  you  will  make  friends,"  she  urged,  "won't 
you  ?  You  won't  be  tied  to  the  house  always  ?" 

"I  shall  not  be  a  very  lively  companion;  I  do 
not  think  that  many  men  will  be  anxious  to  be  friends 
to  me." 


THE    LAURELS   AND  THE   LADY  33 

"Ah,  well,"  exclaimed  Johnny  Teale,  "  'a  boy's 
best  friend  is  his  mother!'  Ain't  she,  madame?" 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Polly,  springing  up  impetu- 
ously, "I  am  sure  that  you  two  would  like  a  cigar  on 
the  stoep !  Don't  move,  Mr.  Childers.  They  will 
come  back  to  you !" 

Teale  stared  in  interrogation. 

"You  would  like  a  cigar  on  the  stoep!"  she  re- 
peated; and  as  it  was  evident  she  meant  to  be  obeyed, 
they  said  it  was  a  very  kind  suggestion,  and  with- 
drew. Teale  consoled  himself  with  the  idea  that 
they  were  to  be  afforded  the  spectacle  of  Willy  on 
his  knees. 

She  did  not  speak  for  some  moments  after  the 
door  closed.  She  sat  down  in  the  chair  Johnny 
Teale  had  vacated,  with  her  back  to  the  window. 
Her  expression  had  changed,  and  her  face  was  quite 
soft. 

"Are  you  pleased  they've  gone?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Willy,  simply. 

"So  am  1 1  I  want  to  talk  to  you — I  like  you. 
Do  you  know,  I  never  was  so  sorry  for  anybody  in 
the  world  before?" 

"You  make  me  feel  almost  glad  I'm  blind,"  mut- 
tered Childers.  "I — I've  prayed  to  talk  to  you  one 
day.  I  used  to  pray  to  see  you,  too;  but  that's 

impossible  now.  That  night "  He  paused, 

afraid. 

"What  night?"  said  the  girl. 


34  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"Your  first  night  here.  You  know,  I  wasn't  blind 

then,  and This  seems  like  a  dream !  Is  it  really 

you  I'm  telling  it  to?" 

"It's  me,"  said  Poll  Patchouli,  her  eyes  shining. 
"And  what?  Don't  stop." 

"I  came  away  praying  to  be  great,  only  to  have 
the  right  to  meet  you!  I  have  always  wanted  to 
succeed,  of  course — ever  since  I  was  a  child;  but 
that  night  it  was  different.  It  was  to  know  you  .  .  . 
to  hear  you  say  you  had  read  my  verse  ...  to  feel 
there  was  a  sort  of  sympathy  between  us.  Are  you 
laughing  at  me?" 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  him.  She 
had  given  her  hand  to  many  men  before,  but  never 
quite  like  that.  Childers  had  a  wild  impulse  to  lift 
it  to  his  lips,  but  did  not — afraid  again.  She  had 
hoped  he  would. 

"Do  you  like  me  as  much  as  you  thought  you  were 
going  to?"  she  said  after  a  silence. 

"Yes,"  said  Willy;  "you  are  just  what  I  was  sure 
you  must  be." 

"Really?" 

"Really!" 

"That's  good!"  she  declared,  smearing  a  tear  off 
her  cheek  with  the  hand  that  was  not  resting  on  him. 
"Shall  you  come  again — I  mean  alone?" 

"May  I?"  he  cried.  "Do  you  mean  it?  Oh,  but 
how  can  I — I  forgot!  I  can't  go  anywhere  alone 
any  more.  This  is  the  first  time  I've  been  out  since 


THE    LAURELS   AND  THE    LADY  35 

I  lost  my  sight,  and  you  know  Teale  and  Ted  Shep- 
herd offered  to  bring  me." 

"The  beasts!"  said  Poll  Patchouli  in  her  throat. 

"If  I  may  come  again  with  them "  he  said 

diffidently. 

"No,  don't  do  that!  Where  do  you  live?  Per- 
haps one  day,  since  you're  all  by  yourself,  /  may 
come  and  see  you.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  talk 
about  it,  if  I  do.  I No,  I  never  shall  come !" 

"Why?"  he  ejaculated.  "Why  not?  I  won't 
speak  a  word  of  it  to  a  soul  if  you  don't  wish  me  to; 
but  it  would  be  a  charity — I'm  sure  you'd  have  no 
need  to  mind.  Oh,  I  would  bless  you,  madame ! 
Please!" 

"Why  do  you  like  me?"  she  said  sullenly.  "You 
must  be  an  awful  fool  to  like  a  woman  you  don't 
know!" 

"I  do  know  you  now,"  he  murmured,  shrinking. 
"And  besides " 

"Besides — what?"  said  Polly. 

"I  had  seen  you  on  the  stage;  is  that  nothing?" 

"Never  mind  the  stage.  Imagine  you've  only  seen 
me  here  to-day." 

"Well?" 

"You  want  me  to  come  ?" 

"I  implore  you  to!" 

"Oh,  yes,  because  I'm  Duchenel  If  I  weren't  a 
great  actress,  you  wouldn't  care  a  button  whether 


36  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

I  was  sorry  for  you  or  not.  Well,  what  is  the 
address?" 

"I'm  in  the  manager's  cottage — Mr.  Somerset's 
cottage — on  the  works  of  the  Fortunatus  Mining 
Company,"  he  gasped.  "Any  driver  will  take  you 
to  it;  it's  in  Bultfontein." 

"I  know!"  she  said. 

"You  know?" 

"I  mean  I  have  heard  the  name  !  No,  my  acquain- 
tance with  the  Diamond  Fields  is  not  so  extensive 
as  all  that,  monsieur.  But  I  will  find  it,  and  I  will 


come." 


Her  accent  was  much  more  marked  in  the  last 
sentence  than  it  had  been  a  few  moments  ago,  but 
its  resumption  was  unnecessary.  If  by  degrees  she 
had  dropped  the  voice  of  Rosa  Duchene  altogether, 
it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  remarked  it. 
The  first  impression  had  been  all-powerful,  and  he 
was  drunk  with  delight. 

Indeed,  when  the  "entertainment"  was  over,  he 
was  the  only  one  entirely  satisfied  with  it.  Johnny 
Teale  and  his  party  felt  that  the  hoax  had  "panned 
out  less  brilliantly,"  on  the  whole,  than  it  promised; 
and  Polly,  alone  in  her  room,  threw  herself  on  the 
bed,  and  cried  miserably,  without  knowing  why. 


IT  was  a  significant  fact  that  she  did  not  call  upon 
him  for  three  days,  though  she  wanted  to  do  so  very 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE   LADY  37 

much.  It  was  significant  also  that  when  she  did  go, 
she  put  on  her  prettiest  hat  and  frock,  and  made 
herself  look  as  dainty  as  she  could,  though  the  young 
man  would  not  be  able  to  see  her.  Her  visit  inten- 
sified that  unfamiliar  emotion  with  her,  pity  for  a 
man,  and  the  step,  once  taken,  she  went  again — with- 
out any  vacillation — and  Bad  Shilling  was  despatched 
for  meals  for  two  from  the  "Carnarvon,"  and  their 
afternoons  were  so  pleasant  that  the  stars  were 
sometimes  out  before  they  parted. 

There  was  now  demanded  of  the  girl  an  infinitely 
more  difficult  achievement  than  that  required  at  the 
Royal  Hotel;  she  found  herself  expected  to  realise, 
and  respond  to,  an  artist's  aspirations.  She  could 
not  do  it,  quite;  the  suspense  in  which  he  waited 
for  the  publishers'  reply,  for  instance,  was  outside 
her  range  of  comprehension.  But  if  she  simulated 
more  sympathy  than  it  was  natural  she  should  feel, 
she  did  by  degrees  come  to  gain  a  glimmer  of  the 
blaze  within  him,  too.  She  had  to  strain  for  it  hard 
at  first — so  hard  that  she  was  surprised  at  her  own 
patience;  his  confidences  were  meaningless  to  her, 
foreign;  but  during  those  long  afternoons  and  eve- 
nings, while  Willy  talked  to  "Rosa  Duchene,"  as 
he  had  never  thought  to  find  himself  talking  to  any- 
one, Polly  sat  opposite  him  in  the  rocking-chair, 
with  attentive  eyes,  learning  a  lesson. 

Once,  just  as  she  was  leaving,  Blake  Somerset 
came  in.  He  had  heard  that  his  nephew  was  receiv- 


38  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

ing  visits  from  a  "lady"  in  the  cottage,  and  guessing 
who  the  lady  must  be,  intended  to  put  a  stop  to 
them.  He  was  rather  ashamed  of  himself  for  hav- 
ing allowed  the  joke  to  be  played  at  all,  and  the 
discovery  of  the  lengths  to  which  it  had  been  carried 
annoyed  him. 

Polly  started  in  alarm,  but  Childers,  who  had  no 
cause  to  be  embarrassed,  performed  what  he  believed 
to  be  the  ceremony  of  introduction  with  perfect 
calmness. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  met  my  uncle,"  he  said; 
"have  you?  Mr.  Somerset — Madame  Duchene." 

Somerset  was  about  to  answer  with  a  brutal  laugh, 
but  a  gesture  from  the  girl  checked  him. 

When  they  were  outside,  and  out  of  earshot,  she 
stopped  and  looked  at  him  appealingly. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  me  away?"  she  said;  "are 
you  going  to  tell  him?  Don't!  I'm  not  doing  any 
harm.  Please  don't  tell  him!" 

"This  is  dam  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Somerset. 
"The  fellow's  a  fool,  but  you've  no  right  to  have  a 
lark  like  this  with  him,  you  know;  it  won't  do !" 

"I'm  not  doing  any  harm,"  she  insisted,  "really ! 
Of  course  it's  a  beastly  shame  in  one  way,  but — but 
it  does  cheer  him  up,  and  give  him  pleasure!  You 
must  see  for  yourself  how  much  brighter  he  is  !  And 
— and  if  you  tell  him,  you'll  break  his  heart." 

"Skittles !"  said  Somerset.    "Don't  talk  such  rot !" 

"You'll  break  his  heart!"  she  flared  out.     "Not 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE    LADY  39 

that  you'd  mind  much,  I  suppose,  if  you  did.  Well, 
go  back  and  do  it  Go  in  and  say,  'That  isn't  Rosa 
Duchene  who  comes  to  see  you  at  all;  it's  a  girl  they 
call  Poll  Patchouli,  and  everybody's  been  kidding 
you !'  Go  on  1  Then  you  won't  have  to  take  him 
to  England  with  you — because  he'll  be  buried  here 
before  you  start — and  it  will  be  you  who'll  have 
killed  him,  as  sure  as  a  gun !" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Somerset,  blankly, 
"that  you  think  he'll  never  find  it  out?  You  must 
be  as  daft  as  he  is,  'pon  my  soul  I  Well,  /  don't 
care;  do  as  you  like — it  can't  last  long,  that's  one 
thing!  When  are  you  coming  to  see  the  idiot  next?" 

"I'm  coming  to-morrow!"  said  Polly.  "And  if 
you  consider  it  all  so  shocking,  I  wonder  you  let 
those  cads  bring  him  to  my  place  when  they  did.  At 
all  events,  I  don't  jeer  at  him,  as  you  meant  me  to." 

Then  she  jumped  up  into  the  "cart"  and  drove 
away,  and  Somerset  dropped  into  the  club,  and  told 
Johnny  Teale  that,  extraordinary  as  it  sounded,  he 
honestly  believed  "that  girl  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
simpleton;"  and  the  little  posse  of  conspirators  sat 
and  viewed  the  development  of  their  plot  with  open 
mouths. 

It  had  been  her  intention  that  the  imposture  she 
was  sustaining  should  conclude  with  the  actress's 
departure;  and  it  was  only  when  the  time  came  that 
she  perceived  how  strange  a  hold  it  had  established 
on  her,  and  how  much  she  liked  the  young  man 


40  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

who  talked  to  her  of  things  that  she  had  never  heard 
talked  about  before.  The  temptation  to  continue 
the  intercourse  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and, 
prompted  by  the  fact  that  Duchene's  season  had  been 
extended  a  week,  she  told  him,  when  she  went  on  the 
morrow,  that  it  was  prolonged  for  six. 

Childers'  joy  was  pitiful  to  behold.  He  had  been 
happier  of  late  in  his  blindness  than  he  had  ever 
been  while  in  possession  of  his  sight,  and  the  sudden 
intelligence  that  his  paradise  would  endure,  when 
the  groan  of  its  closing  gates  was  already  in  his 
soul,  was  a  relief  so  intense  that  its  outcome  fright- 
ened her. 

She  had  been  aware  he  was  in  love  with  her  from 
the  commencement,  but  now  she  saw  how  wildly, 
and  was  aghast.  Her  life  had  not  accustomed  her 
to  regard  the  attachment  between  the  sexes  as  a 
serious  matter,  and  though  she  did  not  view  her 
deception  lightly  any  longer,  she  had  not  grasped 
the  full  responsibility  of  it,  either,  till  then. 

She  gazed  at  him  widely,  with  trembling  lips,  like 
a  child  who  has  smashed  something. 

"Are  you  so  glad,"  she  faltered — "so  glad  as  all 
that?" 

The  consciousness  crept  through  her  as  she  asked 
it,  that  she,  too,  was  glad — not  in  the  whimsical 
way  she  had  thought,  but  as  a  woman  is  glad  to 
remain  with  a  man  who  has  grown  dear  to  her. 
She  moved  slowly  over  to  him,  and  took  his  hands 


THE    LAURELS  AND   THE    LADY  4! 

down  from  his  face,  and  dropped  on  her  knees 
before  the  chair,  staring  up  at  him — wondering  at 
them  both. 

"Willy,"  she  whispered,  "say  something  to  me — 
I  love  you !" 

He  could  not  answer,  but  she  felt  what  she  had 
done,  and  she  forgot  then  that  the  whole  thing  was 
a  lie,  forgot  what  an  exclamation  would  burst  from 
him  if  he  could  see  her;  and  it  was  she  herself  whose 
kisses  he  was  returning;  herself  by  whom  the  tremors 
that  shook  him  were  being  caused. 

The  deception  had  gone  further  still,  and  there 
began  for  the  blind  man  a  period  in  which  he  tasted 
all  the  triumphant  rapture  of  possessing  a  beautiful 
and  celebrated  woman  whom  he  adored.  When  he 
embraced  Polly,  his  delusion  gave  him  Rosa  Duchene 
in  his  arms;  when  Polly  clung  about  him  it 
was  Duchene's  touch  that  thrilled  his  blood,  and 
Duchene's  lips  that  burned.  He  lavished  on  Polly 
the  madness  of  the  passion  which  Rosa  Duchene 
inspired,  and  saw  with  his  brain  the  form  of  the 
famous  woman  who  intoxicated  him,  while' Polly  the 
insignificant  was  lying  on  his  heart. 

The  ecstasy  of  the  delusion  dizzied  him.  Rosa 
Duchene  was  his  own;  visited  him  daily;  vowed  she 
was  wretched  when  they  were  apart!  She,  a  genius, 
whose  name  was  renowned  all  over  the  world,  dis- 
cussed the  prospects  of  his  poems'  acceptance  with 
him,  and  entered  into  his  hopes  and  fears !  Why 


42  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

was  he  a  nobody?  If  he  could  only  climb  nearer  to 
her  own  altitude! 

One  afternoon,  a  fortnight  later,  when  Polly  went 
to  the  post-office  to  inquire  if  there  was  anything 
for  him,  she  found  that  the  reply  for  which  he  was 
waiting  so  anxiously  had  arrived  at  length.  She 
could  see  from  whom  the  note  was  by  the  publish- 
ers' name  on  the  envelope,  and  the  roll  of  manu- 
script which  the  clerk  also  handed  to  her  explained 
the  nature  of  its  contents.  She  took  them,  almost 
as  disconsolate  as  her  lover  would  be,  and  wondered, 
on  her  way  to  the  cottage,  how  she  was  to  break 
the  news  to  him,  how  she  could  be  gentle  enough. 

He  had  come  out  on  the  stoep  to  listen  for  her. 
He  knew  where  she  had  been,  and  the  eagerness 
on  his  face  made  the  words  she  had  to  speak  more 
repugnant  to  her  still. 

"Dearest!"  said  Childers,  and  then  waited. 

"There  is  a  letter,"  said  Polly,  reluctantly;  "I 
haven't  opened  it  yet."  The  bundle  of  rejected  man- 
uscript oppressed  her,  and  she  put  it  down  on  the 
table  with  her  sunshade. 

"From  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Read  it,"  he  begged,  breathlessly.  "Read  it, 
Rosa,  for  Heaven's  sake!" 

She  opened  the  envelope  slowly,  looking  not  at 
it,  but  at  him.  It  was  hateful  that  it  should  be  she 
who  had  to  bring  him  the  disappointment!  The 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  43 

color  was  fluttering  in  his  cheeks,  and  the  thin  hands 
held  out  towards  her  quivered.  Suppose  she  told 
him  a  fib?  Suppose  she  said — ?  He  couldn't  see 
the  answer!  She  caught  her  breath  as  the  notion 
flashed  into  her  mind,  and  Willy  heard  her. 

"They  have  taken  it?"  he  cried. 

She  was  endeavouring,  confusedly,  to  perceive 
what  difficulties  such  a  falsehood  would  entail,  but 
his  question  decided  her;  she  could  not  crush  him 
with  the  truth  after  that! 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "they  have!" 

"Rosa,  Rosa!  Oh,  my  God!  Read  it  to  me! 
What  do  they  say?" 

"They  say "  she  said.  "Oh,  darling,  I  am 

so  glad  for  you,  so  glad!  Willy,  aren't  you  happy? 
I  told  you  it  would  be  all  right,  now  didn't  I  ?" 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"They  say — how  can  I  see,  if  you  hold  me  so 
tight,  silly  boy?  It  is  only  a  line!  'Dear  Sir,  we 
shall  be  pleased  to  publish  the  poems  you  have  sub- 
mitted. They  will  be' — what  is  it? — 'they  will  be 
brought  out  soon.'  Nothing  more!  So — so  per- 
haps they  aren't  going  to  pay  you  for  them ;  but  you 
won't  mind  that,  will  you  ?  They  will  publish  them  ! 
And — they  say  'pleased.'  They  might  have  said 
'willing,'  but  they  say  'pleased.' !" 

To  her  the  communication  she  had  invented 
sounded  very  meagre;  but  she  need  not  have  striven 
to  apologise  for  it.  To  him  the  bare  fact  was  more 


44  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

than  enough.  They  were  going  to  issue  his  book. 
He  would  hold  it — fondle  it — have  it  in  his  clutch ! 
And  soon!  He  had  been  thirsty  all  his  life,  and 
on  an  instant  Fortune  was  raining  her  favours  on 
him  with  both  hands.  Balzac's  expression  of  every 
artist's  prayer  recurred  to  him,  "To  be  celebrated! 
To  be  loved!"  He  marvelled — crazy  with  rejoic- 
ing— that  he  could  be  so  calm  in  the  face  of  miracles. 
He  dominated  Rosa  Duchene,  and  now  his  Reveries 
was  to  be  given  to  the  world!  Then  a  frightful 
misgiving  seized  him. 

"You  haven't  deceived  me?  It  is  true?"  he 
gasped. 

"It  is  true!"  said  Polly.  "How  could  you  think 
such  a  thing?" 

They  embraced  again,  and  he  told  her  how  proud 
she  should  be  of  him  by-and-by. 

"You  will  'make'  me,  lift  me!"  he  panted.  "If 
I  have  written  these  before  I  knew  you,  what  shall 
I  do  now!  I  shall  be  great;  Rosa,  I  shall  be  great! 
The  man  you  love  will  be  known,  too— you  will  have 
done  it  for  me!  What  a  beautiful  world  we  live 
in;  is  it  the  same  world  that  was  so  ugly  the  other 
day?  Life  is  a  cheval-glass — it  reflects  the  attitude 
in  which  you  look  at  it.  O  darling  Life,  it  blows 
kisses  back  to  me!  You  fill  me  with  emotions  and 
ideas,  that  tumble  over  one  another.  I  shall  pour 
them  out  in  my  work — my  mind  and  heart  are  burst- 
ing sometimes,  too  small  to  hold  all  you  wake  in 


45 

them !  I  will  dedicate  every  book  to  you — to  you 
who  will  have  inspired  them  all !  Oh,  I  thank  God 
I  am  a  poet!  To  worship  you  as  I  do,  and  be  able 
to  lay  nothing  at  your  feet  would  have  been  agony !" 

He  wandered  about  the  room  with  her  arm  round 
him,  while  her  troubled  gaze  turned  from  time  to 
time  to  the  package  on  the  table. 

"Did  you  believe  I  was  an  artist  when  we  first 
met,"  he  broke  out  again,  "or  was  it  pity  only?  Did 
you  feel  we  had  something  in  common,  different  from 
the  others?  Oh,  how  vain  of  me  that  sounds!  But 
you  know — you  know  how  I  mean  it!" 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

"And  you  did — you  did  feel  there  was  a  bond 
between  us?  Tell  me.  I  want  so  much  of  you, 
dearest!  I  want  more,  and  more,  and  more  every 
day.  I  want  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  and  more 
than  the  utmost!  It's  as  if  nature  hadn't  provided 
for  such  a  love." 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"You  know  your  thoughts  before  you  speak  them ! 
I'm  jealous  of  that." 

"You're  mad!" 

He  nodded.  "I  dare  say.  Nothing  satisfies  me. 
But  I  can't  see  you — if  you  knew  how  I  strain !  I'd 
give  my  right  arm  to  see  you  now,  Rosa !  Turn 
your  face  up,  and  let  me  try.  Great  God!  it's  a 
wonderful  thing  to  be  born  a  woman — and  yet  some- 
how it  doesn't  seem  enough  to  be  a  man.  One  day 


4»  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

I'll  try  to  tell  you  how  you  make  me  feel.  If  I  can 
do  it,  it'll  be  the  grandest  poem  that  was  ever  penned. 
And  such  a  relief!" 

When  she  left,  the  moon  was  shining.  She  slipped 
the  package  under  her  cloak,  and,  reaching  home, 
hid  it  away  remorsefully  at  the  bottom  of  her  trunk. 
What  would  be  the  outcome  of  this  lie  she  had  told? 
She  upbraided  herself  for  her  cowardice  bitterly; 
but  for  him  to  learn  that  the  work  was  rejected  now 
would  be  a  blow  a  thousand  times  more  terrible  still. 
No,  now  whatever  happened,  he  must  not  know;  he 
would  curse  her! 

VI 

IN  the  night  the  remembrance  struck  her  that  she 
had  left  the  note  in  his  possession,  and  she  was  seized 
with  a  paralysing  dread  that  he  might  show  it  to 
Somerset,  and  discover  the  truth  with  the  rudest 
shock  possible.  The  thought  kept  her  awake,  toss- 
ing in  agony,  and  the  sun  had  scarcely  risen  when 
she  drove  to  Bultfontein,  with  a  face  of  ashes. 

Willy  was  not  visible.  He  was  dressing,  with 
the  aid  of  the  negro  who  attended  on  him.  She 
sank  on  to  the  first  chair  inside  the  door,  and  tried 
to  gather  voice  to  call  to  him. 

He  entered  from  the  bedroom  almost  at  the  same 
moment,  and  his  appearance  indicated  the  occur- 
rence of  all  that  she  had  feared.  His  greeting,  how- 
ever, dispelled  her  alarm,  and  he  explained. 


THE    LAURELS    AND   THE    LADY  47 

"I  have  had  news  about  my  mother,"  he  mur- 
mured; "she  is  dead." 

The  mail  carrying  Childers'  poems  had  also 
brought  a  letter  for  Mr.  Somerset.  Mrs.  Childers 
had  opportunely  died  of  pneumonia — thus  avoiding 
the  arrival  of  "a  son  who  had  no  proper  ambition," 
and  who  was  now  blind  besides.  Somerset  had  had 
a  long  talk  with  him  the  previous  night,  after  Polly's 
departure.  The  widow's  decease  placed  consider- 
able difficulties  in  the  way  of  the  young  man's  return 
to  England.  The  manager  was  going  merely  for 
a  trip,  and  a  few  months  would  see  him  back  on  the 
Fortunatus  works  again.  There  would,  he  pointed 
out,  be  nobody  now  to  take  charge  of  Childers  at 
Home,  when  he  left,  or,  for  that  matter,  while  he 
remained.  It  was  really  an  awkward  thing  to  de- 
termine what  was  to  become  of  him !  A  young  man 
who  had  inherited  about  three  hundred  and  fifty 
a  year  had  seldom  been  so  entirely  in  the  way  before. 

All  these  facts  Childers  imparted  to  Polly. 

"What  I  shall  do  isn't  decided,"  he  went  on.  "I 
couldn't  stop  here  permanently,  even  if  I  wished  to. 
With  the  best  of  intentions,  I'm  bound  to  be  rather 
a  nuisance.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  for  a  fellow  like 
me  to  quarter  himself  on  an  uncle  for  life,  if  he 
were  willing  to  have  me!" 

"Have  you  told  him  about  your  book?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  answered  Willy;  "it  wouldn't  interest  him, 


48  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

and  we  talked  about  my  mother's  death.  No,  I 
didn't  say  anything.". 

"And  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you !"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  a  soul  till  it  is  printed. 
Let  it  be  a  surprise  to  them  all,  and  a  secret,  till 
the  right  time  comes,  between  us  two." 

"That  was  what  I  meant,"  he  said.  "  'Between 
us  two,'  darling,  yes." 

She  passed  the  day  at  once  in  relief  and  dismay; 
it  was  piteous  to  think  of  the  loneliness  of  his  situa- 
tion. She  could  not  have  loved  him  more  tenderly 
if  she  had  been  his  sister  or  his  wife,  and  this  further 
complication  which  had  arisen  to  harass  her  ap- 
peared, temporarily,  the  gravest  of  them  all. 

Willy  also  was  troubled.  Not  only  by  his  mother's 
loss,  but  by  a  passionate  longing  to  propose  to  Rosa 
Duchene  a  sacrifice  which  he  told  himself  would  be 
too  much  to  beg.  He  had  not  exaggerated  in  assert- 
ing that  he  felt  he  was  a  burden  on  his  uncle,  and, 
though  Rosa  loved  him,  he  doubted  if  she,  too, 
would  not  be  reluctant  to  let  him  travel  to  England 
in  her  society,  and  constitute  herself  his  constant 
companion  till  it  was  ascertained  whether  an  opera- 
tion could  be  performed.  Yet  if  he  were  to  go,  he 
saw  no  alternative. 

The  solution  of  the  dilemma  must  have  presented 
itself  to  her,  he  thought,  sailing  shortly,  as  she 
would  be;  but  she  had  not  suggested  it,  and  for 
him  to  do  so  was  impossible.  A  little  constraint 


THE   LAURELS   AND   THE   LADY  49 

crept  into  his  conversations  with  the  girl  now,  and 
while  she  inwardly  commented  and  speculated  on 
the  difference,  he  was  tremulously  waiting  in  every 
pause  for  her  to  make  the  offer  that  had  never  en- 
tered her  head.  Their  dream  might  have  been 
continued  in  England  more  deliciously  than  he  had 
ever  dared  to  hope,  and,  instead,  they  were  to  be 
divided  entirely  by  her  own  indifference !  He  was 
bitterly  wounded,  and  not  even  his  anticipation  of 
his  book  arriving — the  subject  on  which  he  chiefly 
talked  with  her  in  order  to  disguise  the  one  that 
engrossed  him — was  potent  to  banish  the  mortifica- 
tion from  his  mind. 

If  his  allusions  to  that  were  made  perfunctorily, 
however,  their  effect  on  his  listener  was  disquieting 
enough.  The  first  of  the  consequences  of  her  lie 
was  at  hand  to  worry  her  already.  She  repented 
that  she  had  said  "soon"  in  her  improvised  accept- 
ance, and  wondered  how  soon  publisher's  "soon" 
might  mean.  Childers  was  equally  ignorant  on  the 
point,  and  in  answer  to  her  nervous  queries  declared 
that  the  copies  might  reach  him  any  week. 

She  could  do  no  less,  after  this,  than  pretend  to 
go  to  the  post-office  every  mail-day  to  inquire  for 
them,  and  affect  to  be  disappointed  as  she  informed 
him  that  nothing  had  come.  She  groped,  perplexed, 
in  the  labyrinth  of  her  creation,  questioning  help- 
lessly how  to  sustain  it.  If  the  truth  were  exposed 
at  this  stage  she  was  certain  she  should  make  away 


50  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

with  herself;  she  would  have  done  him  the  cruellest, 
the  most  cowardly  wrong  imaginable !  Her  only 
excuse  for  the  deception  was  that,  so  far,  it  had  been 
attended  by  success.  If  the  avalanche  fell,  after  all, 
it  would  be  the  end  of  her;  she  would  be  like  that 
girl  who  had  taken  carbolic  acid  in  Bultfontein  Road 
the  other  day,  and  was  found  in  a  blue  heap  on  the 
floor! 

After  each  mail  she  drew  a  breath,  reflecting, 
thankfully,  that  she  had  gained  another  respite;  but 
when  four  had  been  delivered,  she  feared  that  the 
delay  was  as  long  as  he  could  be  expected  to  put 
faith  in,  and,  facing  the  inevitable  with  the  courage 
of  despair,  nerved  herself  to  perpetrate  a  bolder 
stroke  than  she  had  planned  yet. 

While  she  was  considering  it,  all  prospect  of 
Childers  making  the  voyage  with  his  uncle  was  extin- 
guished definitely.  The  latter  was  starting  at  once, 
at  a  couple  of  days'  notice,  for  a  very  flying  visit 
indeed.  His  subordinate  on  the  Fortunatus  had  been 
offered  a  better  appointment,  and  it  was  necessary 
the  manager's  vacation  should  be  taken  while  the 
other  was  still  on  the  works.  Willy  would  be  more 
than  ever  an  encumbrance  under  these  circumstances. 

Somerset  explained  that  he  would  make  time  to 
see  the  solicitor  of  the  estate,  and  endeavour  to 
effect  some  arrangement  for  the  boy  to  be  looked 
after  in  London — there  were  always  fellows  going 


over;  he  could  travel  with  someone  else  later  on — 
but  to  take  him  himself  was  wholly  impracticable. 

Willy  did  not  remonstrate,  but  the  end  of  the 
additional  six  weeks  which  he  believed  Rosa  to  be 
playing  in  Kimberley  was  terribly  near  now  (Rosa 
Duchene,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  at  this  time  in 
Monte  Carlo,  dropping  some  of  the  Diamond  Fields' 
receipts  at  the  tables),  and  he  felt  hopelessly  that 
the  woman  he  loved  was  fading  out  of  his  life  for 
ever.  He  could  have  cried  with  the  pain  of  it. 

He  sat  in  the  slip  of  a  sitting-room  the  night  be- 
fore the  departure,  listening  while  Blake  Somerset 
banged  his  portmanteau  about,  and  replying  miser- 
ably to  his  cheerful  remarks.  Somerset  was  debating 
whether  to  drop  the  lad  a  hint  about  Polly,  but 
thought  he  would  ask  Ted  Shepherd  to  keep  an 
eye  on  him  instead.  Childers  was  longing  for  him 
to  be  actually  gone,  that  he  might  abandon  himself 
to  his  wretchedness  without  restraint. 

In  the  morning  he  did  not  feel  his  forlornness  to 
so  acute  a  degree  when  the  sound  of  the  "cart" 
wheels  had  died  away,  leaving  him  to  the  mercies 
of  Bad  Shilling  for  the  next  two  months,  as  he  had 
done  while  the  preparations  were  going  forward; 
but  the  consciousness  that  they  all  found  him  an 
incubus,  and  shrank  from  saddling  themselves  with 
him,  hung  over  him  like  a  cloud. 

His  welcome  of  Polly  when  she  appeared  was 
the  expression  of  the  consciousness,  and  struck  her 


52  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

with  a  chill.  She  put  off  her  cape  and  hat,  and, 
after  a  few  abortive  efforts  to  establish  a  warmer 
atmosphere,  busied  herself  with  the  making  of  the 
tea,  which  had  become  one  of  the  regular  features 
of  their  afternoons. 

At  last,  glancing  over  at  him  hesitatingly,  she 
said — 

"Has  anything  happened?    You  seem  very  quiet." 

"No,  nothing  particular.  My  uncle  has  gone,  that 
is  all." 

"  'Gone!'  "  she  echoed;  "gone  where?" 

"He  has  gone  to  England.  It  was  settled  two 
days  ago;  didn't  I  mention  it?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  didn't.  It  is  rather  strange 
you  should  have  forgotten  such  a  thing.  Then  you 
are  alone  here  altogether  now,  you  poor  boy — all 
night,  too?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  playing  with  her  discarded 
gloves;  "all  night,  too." 

But  he  did  not  say  any  more,  and  with  a  stare 
of  puzzlement,  and  her  face  a  little  paler,  she  con- 
tinued her  occupation  silently.  She  had  lit  the  wick 
of  the  spirit-lamp,  and  filled  the  kettle,  and  now 
stood  waiting  for  the  water  to  boil. 

"It  is  boiling,  Rosa,"  said  Childers;  "I  can  hear 
it." 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  else,"  she  said,  start- 
ing. "There!  It  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes." 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  53 

"What  were  you  thinking  of?"  he  asked,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"Of What's  the  difference  ?"  said  the  girl. 

"/  was  thinking,  too." 

"I  know."  She  ran  over  to  him  impulsively,  and 
bent  over  the  chair.  "Willy,  we  aren't  the  same  to 
each  other!  What  is  it?  Tell  me.  ,You  aren't  as 
fond  of  me?" 

He  laughed — or  sobbed — in  derision. 

"It's  you!" 

"I?" 

"Oh!  don't  make  me  say  it!  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  I  shall  be  alone  in  this  Heaven-forsaken  hole, 
and  that,  for  all  one  can  see,  I  may  end  my  life  in 
it.  He's  gone,  and  you're  going!  Picture  me  here 
sometimes;  it's  a  charming  apartment,  isn't  it,  and 
I'm  a  pretty  figure  to  look  back  on !  You  will  have 
a  unique  recollection;  you'll  always  be  able  to  think 
of  'the  absent  one'  just  as  you  left  him !  That's  the 
advantage  of  knowing  a  log!" 

"Willy!"  she  cried.  "What  do  you  mean?  Why 
do  you ?" 

"I  shall  see  more  of  Bad  Shilling  after  you're 
gone — if  he's  kind !  I  shall  learn  to  quite  look  for- 
ward to  his  remembering  me,  and  listen  for  his  big 
black  feet  on  the  boards  as  I  used  to  listen  for  you! 
Has  'anything  happened'?  Oh,  my  God!" 

"Why  do  you  talk  to  me  like  this?"  she  exclaimed 
excitedly.  "Don't  you  think  I'm  sorry  for  you 


54  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

enough?  You  talk  as  if  I  could  help  it;  hoiv  can 
I  help  it?  If  I  can,  tell  me  the  way !  I'll  do  it.  I'd 
love  to  do  it  You  reproach  me  for  nothing!" 

The  boy's  eyebrows  were  lifted  significantly,  and 
she  flung  herself  on  him  in  a  whirlwind  of  interro- 
gation. 

"If  I  can  help  it,  tell  me  the  way!  You  shall 
tell  me!  I  don't  know  what  you  mean — I  swear  I 
don't!  I  won't  let  you  go  till  you  tell!" 

"You — haven't  thought?" 

She  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

"Answer !  Oh,  I  forgot — I  was  shaking  my  head ! 
No,  no,  no;  I  do  not  know,  Will!" 

"You  will  refuse  if  you  want  to?" 

"Answer !  Yes,  I  will  refuse  if  I  want  to.  Answer 
me!" 

"We — you  and  I — might  go  to  England  to- 
gether." 

Her  clasp  of  his  neck  loosened,  and  she  lay  in  his 
arms  limp  with  dismay.  This,  the  natural  course  in 
the  role  she  was  assuming,  was  the  last  complication 
she  had  contemplated. 

"How?"  she  gasped. 

"You  don't  wish  it?" 

"Yes !  yes  !    I  do !  I  do !    But  how  ?" 

"It  would  be  quite  easy.  Let  your  Company  go 
on  ahead,  and  we  can  follow  by  another  boat.  I 
have  thought  of  everything.  Thought!  I've  thought 
of  nothing  else.  In  that  drawer  there's  my  money 


THE   LAURELS   AND   THE   LADY  55 

— you  would  take  it,  and  get  our  tickets  to  Cape 
Town.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much  money  there 
ought  to  be,  but  there  is  nothing  like  enough  for 
our  passages,  and  when  we  got  down  to  the  Colony 
I  should  wire  to  the  lawyer,  and  he  could  cable  me 
out  a  hundred  or  two.  Well,  and  then " 

"Go  on,"  muttered  Polly,  feverishly,  "go  on!" 

The  blessed  revelation  that  he  did  not  expect  her 
to  pay  for  her  own  passage — a  matter  that  would 
have  been  as  impossible  for  her  as  to  buy  the  Kim- 
berley  Mine — had  brought  the  colour  to  her  cheeks 
again.  The  one  question  that  was  dizzying  her 
now  was  how  it  would  be  practicable  to  sustain  his 
delusion  about  her  identity  if  they  travelled  on  a 
steamer  full  of  people. 

"Well,  and  then,  when  we  were  Home,  we  would 
go  to  a  great  oculist — a  very  great  oculist — some- 
body who  sits  in  his  consulting-room  like  a  judge, 
and  charges  a  guinea  a  minute.  Or  perhaps  a  Ger- 
man— yes,  we  might  go  to  a  German,  who  doesn't 
look  like  an  oculist  a  bit,  but  is  marvellously  clever, 
like  the  one  in  'Poor  Miss  Finch' — and  he'd  give  me 
back  my  sight — my  sight!  my  sight!  And  I  could 
see  you  when  we  kiss !" 

She  yearned  round  at  him  with  wide  eyes,  pitiful 
and  afraid. 

"To  think  it  should  never  have  struck  you !  Rosa, 
I've  been  breaking  my  heart  because  you  didn't  sug- 
gest it.  I  thought  you  didn't  care  for  me  any  more 


56  THIS   STAGE  OF   FOOLS 

— that  you  had  grown  tired.  Won't  it  be  glorious  1 
I  shall  see  your  beautiful  face  close  at  last,  and  it 
will  be  you  who  helped  me  to  do  it.  Sweetest,  tell 
me  we  are  going — it  seems  too  wonderful  to  be  true ! 
Say  it!" 

"We  shall  go,"  she  said.  She  put  her  hand 
through  the  open  window,  and  pulled  at  the  water- 
bag  that  was  suspended  in  a  temperature  in  which 
no  ice  would  keep.  Roughly  made  of  canvas,  like 
a  small  pillow-case  sewn  up,  with  the  neck  of  a  beer- 
bottle  inserted  for  a  spout,  Bad  Shilling  filled  it 
with  the  lukewarm,  undrinkable  water  every  day 
to  hang  in  the  air.  The  iciness  of  its  contact  with 
her  forehead  now  cleared  her  brain. 


VII 

BESIDE  the  stupendousness  of  this  new  difficulty, 
the  necessity  for  meeting  his  demand  for  the  copies 
of  his  Reveries,  which  she  had  dreaded  so,  appeared 
a  simple  matter  enough;  and  when  she  came  next, 
she  placed  a  parcel  on  his  knees  with  so  little  mis- 
giving that  she  was  surprised  at  herself. 

The  poet  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  delight.  "My 
book!  It  must  be  my  book!" 

She  told  him  to  cut  the  string,  but  his  fingers 
shook  so  that  he  could  not  manage  it.  He  fumbled 
futilely  in  his  impatience. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "I  can't!     Rosa— you!" 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  57 

She  took  the  penknife  from  his  hand,  and  after- 
wards let  him  unfold  the  wrappings  for  himself.  Six 
volumes  met  his  touch  with  an  electric  thrill — alike, 
identical — but  each  to  be  caressed  separately,  each 
lovable  and  delicious.  How  smooth  was  the  delicate 
surface  that  he  stroked — soft  as  a  woman's  palm ! 
He  was  holding  his  first-  born,  and  he  thanked  God. 
The  emotion  was  the  true  emotion,  though  it  was 
conjured  up  by  fraud;  it  was  the  bliss  of  ignorance, 
but,  none  the  less,  bliss.  He  was  holding  his  first- 
born, and  Polly  had  given  him  no  meaner  a  joy 
than  Heaven  would  have  given  had  it  endowed  him 
with  the  powers  which  he  fancied  he  had  displayed. 
Six  copies  of  another  work,  and  imagination  were 
as  potent  as  reality. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is  like,"  he  whispered. 

"It  is,"  she  said,  "a  pale,  curious  fawn.  The 
edges  are  stained  a  deeper  shade,  and  the  name  of 
'William  Childers'  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  cover,  a 
little  to  the  right,  in  dark,  antique  lettering." 

"Let  me  trace  it!     Show  me!" 

She  obeyed,  terrified,  watching  his  effort  breath- 
lessly. 

"I  cannot  make  it  out!  But  it  looks  well,  Rosa, 
eh?  It  looks  well?" 

"It  looks  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"The  paper  is  thin,"  he  murmured;  "I  hoped  they 
would  have  given  me  better  paper." 

"It  is  thin,"   she  confessed,   remorsefully,   "but 


58  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

very  good  looking.  I  think  it  looks  more  uncommon 
on  the  whole  than  if  it  had  been  thick." 

"And  the  type — big?     Is  there  a  wide  margin?" 

"There  is  a  very  wide  margin,"  asserted  Polly. 
"Give  me  your  finger  again — there,  all  that  is  mar- 
gin !  And  the  type  is  splendid !  I  can  read  it  from 
here,  without  bending."  She  could.  She  read:  'The 
Norman  Conquest.  Edward  was  not  a  vigorous 
king;  he  had  little  authority,  while '  ' 

He  cuddled  the  book  close,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh 
of  content. 

"Perhaps  soon  I  shall  be  able  to  see  it!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Rosa,  when  do  we  go — need  we  wait 
long?  I  am  on  fire!  But,  oh,  I  am  happy,  too — 
happy,  happy!  I  am  happier  than  I  ever  hoped  I 
should  be,  although  I  have  no  eyes.  Since  I  knew 
you  my  whole  life  has  changed ;  you  have  given  me, 
and  you  are  bringing  me  success !  How  can  I  repay 
you!" 

Suddenly  a  passionate  desire  seized  him.  "Read 
me  the  first  poem,"  he  prayed,  "read  me  Sic  Itur  ad 
*  Astra.  Let  me  hear  my  verse  spoken  by  you !" 

The  blood  fell  from  her  face,  and  she  stood 
speechless.  Her  head  was  swimming. 

"Rosa!" 

"Wait!"  she  stammered,  recovering  herself;  "it 
is  new  to  me.  You  are  a  poet,  and  it  is  new  to  me ! 
Wait  until  I  know  them,  Will — I  have  a  reputation 
to  lose!" 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  59 

She  thanked  her  guiding  star  she  had  kept  the 
manuscript,  and  he,  his  disappointment  passing, 
thought  how  sweet  this  timidity  in  such  a  woman 
was.  He  told  her  so,  with  triumphant  tenderness. 
She  resolved  he  should  have  plenty  of  occasions  for 
the  triumph  in  the  future. 

She  had  proposed  that  on  the  journey  before 
them  she  should  adopt  his  own  surname,  explaining 
the  unavoidable  request  by  pointing  out  that  while 
Duchene's  features  might  be  familiar  to  many,  Du- 
chene's  name  would  be  known  to  all,  and  prove  a 
certain  embarrassment  in  their  position.  In  agree- 
ing with  this — which  was  specious  enough — Childers 
had  removed  her  initial  anxiety  from  her  mind. 

Freed  from  it,  she  made,  in  the  ensuing  days,  the 
needful  preparations  with  less  of  fright  in  her  soul, 
and  now,  since  they  were  to  go,  she  was  sometimes 
eager  for  them  to  be  gone  quickly.  There  was  just 
the  contingency  that  a  man  might  drop  in  on  him, 
and  an  accident  destroy  the  whole  fabric  of  the  de- 
ception she  had  weaved  at  the  final  instant.  She 
strove  to  persuade  herself  she  might  preserve  her<- 
lover's  delusion  more  securely  where  she  had  only 
strangers  to  fear  than  she  could  have  done  on  the 
Diamond  Fields,  but  then  her  reason  mocked  her 
for  the  hope.  So  many  things  might  happen — she 
dared  not  look  forward.  Alternately  she  longed  and 
trembled  for  the  hour  that  should  see  them  start. 
She  was  fighting  pluckily,  but  the  enormity  of  the 


60  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

undertaking  to  which  she  had  set  her  hand  paralysed 
her  in  moments,  and  at  every  step  she  seemed  called 
upon  to  vanquish  a  further  obstacle  that  had  nojt  Uelen 
suspected  till  it  barred  the  way. 

When  the  morning  broke  at  length,  her  predomi- 
nant sensation  was  pleasure.  Her  own  trunks  were 
ready,  and  while  Bad  Shilling  was  sent  for  their 
breakfast  she  was  busy  packing  the  remaining  things 
of  Willy's.  She  was  still  on  her  knees,  endeavouring 
to  fasten  the  box,  while  Childers  sat  on  it,  when  the 
"boy"  returned.  His  additional  weight — for  he  was 
a  "boy"  of  about  forty  years,  and  weighing  twelve 
stones — disposed  of  the  difficulty,  and,  laughing  after 
their  exertions,  they  sat  down  to  the  coffee  and  steaks 
at  the  untidy  table  quite  gaily,  reminding  each  other 
that  it  was  for  the  last  time. 

The  negro  had  come  back  with  a  "cart,"  which 
stood  waiting  for  them,  and,  the  meal  concluded, 
they  made  haste  to  depart.  As  they  mounted  and 
took  their  seats,  the  doors  of  the  cottage  and  all 
the  sheds  about  the  works  banged  violently;  the 
sunshine  sank,  and  the  long,  low  swishing  sound  was 
heard  that  heralded  a  dust-storm.  In  another  minute 
the  air  was  darkened  as  by  a  London  fog;  windows 
rattled,  and  they  hid  their  faces  in  their  hands,  in 
the  vain  attempt  to  shield  them  from  the  hissing 
clouds  that  whirled  and  stung.  Such  dust-storms 
were  of  constant  occurrence,  but  in  this  one  the  little 
Hottentot  Jehu  appeared  to  perceive  a  significance, 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  6 1 

and  he  lashed  forward  the  horses  furiously.  They 
had  gained  the  station  before  the  rain  he  had  fore- 
seen began  to  fall ;  but  it  did  fall — in  floods — sweep- 
ing less  fortunate  animals  off  their  feet;  and  Polly's 
cheerfulness  deserted  her  as  she  glanced  back  into 
the  deluge,  and  she  felt  superstitiously  that  the 
adventure  had  commenced  under  ominous  conditions. 


VIII 

HOWEVER,  the  thirty  odd  hours  in  the  train  were 
uneventful,  and  they  reached  Cape  Town  without 
any  new  danger  having  reared  its  head.  Exhilara- 
tion was  in  the  ascendant  again.  The  comparative 
freshness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  sparkle  of  the  sea 
beyond  the  jetty  to  her,  and  the  scent  of  it  to  him, 
the  odour  of  flowers  and  rustle  of  the  trees,  were 
delicious  after  the  desert  they  had  left. 

And  he  drove  in  a  hansom  again — a  white  han- 
som, with  a  coloured  driver  truly,  but  a  hansom! 
They  went  straight  to  a  little  inn,  of  which  Polly 
had  heard,  outside  the  town,  almost,  it  seemed  to 
her,  at  the  very  foot  of  Table  Mountain,  whose 
squareness  broke  off  so  sharply  against  the  intense 
blue  sky,  and  here,  obtaining  rooms — the  entire  inn 
was  at  their  disposal,  if  they  had  wanted  it — sat 
down  and  smiled  at  each  other  from  sheer  delight. 

"How  clean  everything  feelsl"  said  Childers. 
"Isn't  it?  There's  a  feeling  of  cleanness  about  the 


62  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

towels,  and  the  chair-covers,  and  the  curtains,  that 
is  an  absolute  novelty  to  me!" 

He  had  expressed  just  what  she  was  thinking.  It 
was  clean,  and  outside  it  was  green  and  tranquil. 
The  road  that  the  hostel  overlooked  was,  at  this 
part,  an  avenue  of  firs,  glinting  here  and  there  with1 
branches  of  the  silver-leaves  which  are  sent  to  Eng- 
land as  birthday  cards,  with  stiff  little  views  or  sen- 
timents painted  on  them.  Presently  a  Malay  maid- 
servant— a  starched,  white  triangle  from  the  arm- 
pits down,  and  with  a  bright  silk  fez  upon  her  head 
— came  in  with  their  dinner,  and  they  tasted  fruit 
once  more;  not  fruit  as  it  was  procurable  in  Kim- 
berley,  but  great  luscious  peaches,  and  purple  figs, 
and  a  water-melon  plucked  since  an  hour,  that  gushed 
into  their  mouths.  They  sat  dawdling  by  the  win- 
dow over  their  coffee  while  the  moon  rose,  and  now 
and  again  the  thrum  of  a  banjo  was  borne  to  them 
on  the  stillness;  and  Childers  smoked  a  cigarette, 
because  the  situation  seemed  to  call  for  one,  though 
he  only  enjoyed  it  with  his  fingers  now. 

In  the  morning  they  took  one  of  the  trains  that 
potter  backwards  and  forwards  between  the  suburbs 
and  Cape  Town,  and  sent  the  cable  to  the  solicitor. 
But  they  were  not  impatient  for  the  money  to  arrive; 
they  contemplated  the  two  or  three  days  they  would 
have  to  pass  here  with  great  fortitude. 

When  the  answer  came,  and  they  issued  from  the 
bank  with  a  roll  of  notes  in  Polly's  pocket,  they  went 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE    LADY  63 

to  the  office  of  the  line  which  had  a  boat  sailing 
next,  to  engage  their  passages;  and  here  they  met 
with  their  first  disappointment.  All  the  berths  were 
gone,  and  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  wait  for  the 
Union  steamer,  that  left  a  week  later. 

It  was  disconcerting,  but  it  could  not  be  helped. 
After  all,  they  were  comfortable  at  the  inn,  and 
though  Childers  experienced  more  regret  than  Polly, 
he  was  not  very  seriously  chagrined  either.  They 
walked  home  talking — for  it  was  an  agreeable  walk 
after  one  had  passed  the  tannery  at  Papendorp — 
and  he  confided  to  her  his  suspense  until  he  had 
learnt  how  Reveries  was  received;  the  humilia- 
tion he  would  feel  if  the  reviewers  sneered  at  it. 
And  then  the  girl  told  him  what  the  scene  about 
them  looked  like;  of  the  fields  of  arum  lilies,  de- 
spised as  buttercups  in  England,  and  the  clusters  of 
maidenhair-fern  that  fluttered  in  every  hedge. 

"Look!"  she  exclaimed  once,  inadvertently.  "Oh! 
.  .  .  I  mean  how  sweet  this  is,  Will,  this  villa! 
Those  high  cactuses — cacti,  what  do  you  call  them 
—divide  the  garden  from  us,  but  here,  at  the  gate, 
one  can  see  in.  The  lawn  is  yellow  with  loquat  trees 
and  crimson  with  japonicas.  It's  all  patches  of  col- 
our or  of  shadow.  And  it's  got  a  perfect  duck  of 
a  stoep,  and — oh,  a  lovely  old  negress  with  white 
hair,  who's  coming  down  to  us!  Let's  stroll  on; 
she'd  bother  us  to  go  over  it,  perhaps — it's  to  let." 

"We  shall  find  a  difference  when  we  get  to  Lon- 


64  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

don,  shall  we  not?"  he  remarked  as  they  proceeded. 
"Fancy  it!  January!  The  cold,  the  wet,  the  black, 
bustling  crowd  in  the  foggy  streets,  and  the  mud-carts 
slopping  over  with  slush.  What  a  contrast!" 

"London  has  suburbs,  too!"  she  answered  hope- 
fully. "Dulwich,  where  you  lived,  is  a  suburb,  isn't 
it  ?  It  wouldn't  be  like  that  if  we  went  to  Dulwich  ?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "we  should  not  find  a  crowd  in 
Dulwich,  because  the  people  who  live  there  never 
go  out;  and  there  would  be  no  mud-carts,  because 
in  deadly  Dulwich  the  mud  is  never  cleared  away. 
But  its  long,  dreary,  desolate  roads  aren't  like  this 
one,  Rosa,  in  the  least." 

Cape  Town  appeared  to  him,  in  spite  of  his  afflic- 
tion, much  more  attractive  now  than  it  had  done 
eighteen  months  before,  when  he  saw  it.  The 
thought  occurred  that  he  might  utilise  their  enforced 
delay  by  consulting  one  of  its  medical  men — he 
doubted  its  boasting  an  oculist  pure  and  simple — 
and  obtaining  a  second  and  more  authoritative  opin- 
ion. He  propounded  the  idea  to  Polly,  and,  on  in- 
quiry, she  ascertained  that  the  best  man  to  whom 
he  could  go  was  an  Englishman — a  Dr.  Eben 
Drysdale. 

Very  encouraging  accounts  were  forthcoming  of 
his  ability.  Though  not  a  specialist,  he  had  effected 
some  remarkable  cures  in  ophthalmic  cases,  it  was 
affirmed,  and  Childers,  who  wrote  to  him  through 


THE   LAURELS   AND   THE   LADY  65 

Polly  for  an  appointment,  grew  strongly  excited  as 
the  time  for  the  visit  drew  near. 

The  girl  herself  did  not  know  what  to  desire. 
When  they  mounted  the  steps  of  the  house,  her  knees 
knocked  together.  To  wish  the  man  might  say  that 
no  operation  would  succeed  sounded  so  heartless  that 
she  was  ashamed  to  look  at  Willy  while  the  strug- 
gle with  the  hope  was  going  on;  yet  to  hear  that  his 
sight  could  certainly  be  restored  would  mean  dis- 
covery to  herself  and  despair  to  him.  She  often 
prayed,  though  to  many  it  may  sound  improbable; 
and  as  they  stood  waiting  on  the  doorstep  to  be  ad- 
mitted, she  shaped  an  inward,  irresolute  prayer  now. 
She  said,  "O  God,  You  know  all  about  it — help  me 
to  want  the  thing  that  he'll  like  bestl" 

Dr.  Drysdale  did  not  bear  any  resemblance  to 
either  of  the  imaginary  authorities  whose  portraits 
Childers  had  sketched  in  Bultfontein.  He  shook 
hands  with  his  visitors,  observed  genially  that  it  was 
beautiful  weather,  and  received  them  as  if  nothing 
could  be  further  than  the  existence  of  any  anxiety 
from  his  own  recollection  or  from  theirs. 

When  Willy  had  finished  explaining,  he  said — 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  and  tapped  his  teeth  pen- 
sively with  a  thermometer  that  had  been  lying  on 
the  table.  "Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure !  And  you  are  on 
your  way  back  to  the  old  country,  eh?  Well,  now 
let  us  seel  Let  us  have  a  look,  sir!"  He  lifted  the 
lids,  and  scrutinised  the  boy's  eyes  one  by  one  under 


66  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

the  rays  of  an  adjustable  electric  lamp.  "Yes,  yes, 
to  be  sure!  And  how  long  is  it  since  the  trouble 
began?" 

"My  sight  has  been  weak  a  long  while,"  answered 
Willy.  "It's  been  getting  very  bad  the  last  eight 
months,  and  about  nine  weeks  ago  it  failed  alto- 
gether. At  least,  I  wore  a  shade  for  a  few  days,  and 
then " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Dr.  Drysdale. 

"Can  you  give  us  any  hope?"  asked  Polly. 

The  physician  mused.  "There  is  hope,"  he  said, 
"there  is  hope.  I  wouldn't  say  that  no  one  would 
advise  an  operation  over  there.  You  might  go  to 
Pholett  or  to  Maclntyre — I  dare  say  Maclntyre 
would  do  it — and  it's  just  possible  it  might  be  par- 
tially successful;  but  I  wouldn't  counsel  it  in  this  case; 
I  wouldn't  counsel  it  myself.  Your  husband?" 

Polly  bowed. 

"Your  husband,  yes !  I  wouldn't  counsel  it  myself. 
Do  you  think  it  is  advisable,  sir,  to  proceed  to  Eng- 
land for  the  sake  of — er — this  remote  chance?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Willy,  heavily. 

"In  your  state  of  health  it  will  be  injurious  in  the 
extreme.  Here  it's  quite  the  reverse — you've 
everything  in  your  favour.  My  advice  would  be  to 
stay  where  you  are.  Suppose  they  do  see  their  way 
to  an  operation,  what  of  it?  Do  you  mind  taking 
off  your  coat  and  waistcoat? — Thank  you.  Now 
draw  a  deep  breath — that's  it!  Now  again!" 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE   LADY  67 

"My  lungs  are  not  strong,"  stammered  Willy,  "I 
know;  they  never  have  been!  But  what  you  are 
implying  is  news  to  me." 

Polly  rose  to  her  feet  in  consternation. 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  is  ill,  doctor?"  she  ex- 
claimed— "very  ill?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Dr.  Drysdale,  suddenly  evasive, 
"that  I  wouldn't  recommend  him  to  go  to  England, 
that's  all.  No  need  to  be  alarmed,  my  dear  madam; 
don't  let  me  startle  you !  It's  not  a  climate  we  choose 
when  there  is  a  tendency  to  any  pulmonary  complaint, 
and — and  your  husband  was  perfectly  aware  that  his 
lungs  'aren't  strong.'  ' 

There  was  a  pause  that  lasted  some  time. 

"We  may  as  well  go,"  said  Childers,  at  length. 
"I  am  glad  to  have  had  your  opinion.  Good  morn- 
ing." 

But  as  Polly  went  forward  to  the  head  of  the 
staircase,  he  stopped,  instead  of  following  her,  and 
spoke  to  the  doctor  again,  on  the  threshold. 

"I  want  what  you've  seen,  straight,  please!"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "If  I  live  in  England,  how  long 
shall  I  last?" 

"One  cannot  say,"  murmured  the  other,  depre- 
catingly;  "nature  at  times " 

"Roughly?  I  can  bear  it — I'm  not  a  child!  How 
long?" 

"So  far  as  I  can  judge  from  a  very  cursory  exam- 
ination, I  should  give  you  about  two  years." 


68  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"Good  God!"  said  Childers.    "And  here?" 

"Here?  With  care,  and  the  avoidance  of  any- 
thing like  physical  or  mental  excitement,  you  may 
live  for  ten!  More!  But  you  must  avoid  excite- 
ment, mind;  it's  imperative!" 

The  girl  was  returning,  anxious  to  miss  nothing. 
Childers  caught  the  frou-frou  of  her  skirt  on  the 
floor. 

"If  I  can't  avoid  excitement,"  he  questioned,  des- 
perately— "if  that's  impossible?" 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  will  not  live  so  long!" 

IX 

CHILDERS  and  Polly  left  the  house,  and  turned  into 
the  street  silently.  She  could  not  express  her  com- 
prehension by  any  words,  and  loathed  the  passers-by, 
who  prevented  her  taking  him  to  her  heart.  To  him 
the  shock  was  awful,  and  he  knew  now  the  meaning 
of  various  sensations  which  he  had  mentally  set  down 
to  lassitude  and  depression. 

She  squeezed  the  hand  that  rested  on  her  arm 
against  her  side. 

"My  poor  boy!"  she  said,  chokingly. 

"It's — it's  rather  a  blow,  isn't  it?" 

The  sky  was  of  just  as  hard  a  blue  as  when  they 
had  entered,  she  noticed  with  dull  eyes ;  the  glimpse 
of  bay  sparkled  just  as  fiercely;  the  same  traffic  was 
in  the  roads,  producing  muffled  sounds. 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE    LADY  69 

"You  must  stop  in  Cape  Town,"  she  murmured, 
"and  get  well  here.  .  .  .  Are  we  going  back  by 
train?" 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  drearily.  .  .  .  "Yes,  I  sup- 
pose by  train." 

His  thoughts  were  not  that  his  sight  was  lost  for 
ever;  not  that  England  would  never  be  anything  but 
a  memory  to  him  any  more;  but  that  he  and  she 
would  be  divided  now.  She  would  go — perhaps  a 
little  later  than  they  were  to  have  gone  together — 
perhaps  much  later — but  she  would  go. 

"It  was  fated,  it  seems!"  he  said. 

"What?"  she  asked. 

He  had  assumed  that  she  must  be  thinking  of  it, 
too.  She  was  suffering  with  her  own  identity,  and 
had  not  remembered  to  view  the  calamity  as 
Duchene. 

"You  will  leave  me  out  here,  after  all !" 

"Leave  you?"  Then,  realising  the  position,  she 
was  staggered.  Would  Rosa  Duchene  leave  him? 
Or  would  she  stay,  regardless  of  everything  else? 
She  did  not  know !  It  looked  incredible  to  her  that 
the  actress  would  consent  to  change  her  whole  mode 
of  life,  to  renounce  her  career,  and  make  herself  the 
jest  of  Europe,  in  order  to  remain  by  the  side  of 
Willy  in  Cape  Town.  And  then  she  argued  that  it 
looked  incredible  because  the  other  woman  was  noth- 
ing but  a  great  name  to  her,  and  that  if  she  had  loved 
him  as  he  imagined  she  did,  the  actress  would  at 


70  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

this  minute  have  been  wrung  with  the  identical  dis- 
tress she  was  experiencing  herself.  "We — we  must 
consider,"  she  said. 

Would  consent  be  equivalent  to  discovery?  or 
would  his  belief  in  the  devotion  he  had  inspired  be 
equal  to  accepting  such  a  sacrifice  without  suspicion? 
She  sat  staring  from  the  window  of  the  railway-com- 
partment, asking  herself  the  question  as  the  train 
bore  them  homeward.  She  was  now  grateful  for 
the  presence  of  strangers ;  she  did  not  want  to  speak. 

On  the  platform  Childers  said — 

"But  what  do  I  care — we  will  go  together  just  the 
same!  Rosa,  I  would  rather  be  with  you  and  die, 
than  live  and  be  left  alone.  Don't  let  us  think  about 
it  any  more ;  we'll  go  as  we'd  determined !" 

"You  must  be  insane !"  she  said,  starting.  "I  don't 
want  a  suicide  on  my  account" 

He  persisted,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  him.  All 
the  afternoon  she  waited,  trying  to  perceive  whether 
he  was  ready  to  receive  the  suggestion  she  was  aching 
to  make. 

During  the  evening  they  were  both  very  quiet. 
She  had  wheeled  her  armchair  to  the  sofa  where 
he  lay,  and  stooped  from  time  to  time  to  kiss  him, 
but  her  sympathy  seemed  empty  to  him  without  the 
words  he  was  yearning  to  hear,  and  to  herself,  till 
they  could  be  spoken,  it  seemed  that  she  was  offering 
him  an  insult. 


THE   LAURELS   AND  THE   LADY  71 

"When  shall  you  sail?"  he  said,  breaking  a  long 
pause. 

"When  you  are  tired  of  me,"  she  answered. 

"Ah,  you  will  go  before  then!" 

"Really?" 

Coquetry  appeared  heartless  to  him.  He  won- 
dered she  could  display  any  in  such  an  hour. 

"For  the  first  time  I  wish  you  were  a  'nobody,' ' 
he  sighed.     "I've  been  too  vain,  perhaps,  of  being 
loved  by  Rosa  Duchene.     Now  I'm  punished  for  it 
— it's  your  position  that  comes  between  us.     Her 
lover,  or  her  career — what  woman  would  hesitate?" 

He  did  not  know  it,  or  intend  it,  but  the  reproach 
that  was  her  clue  was  in  his  tone.  She  shut  her 
eyes,  and  shivered  with  joy  before  she  spoke. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  woman  would  hesitate,"  she 
said,  with  a  laugh;  "but  does  it  matter  much?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Rosa?"  faltered  Willy. 

"Supposing "  she  said,  curling  a  piece  of  his 

hair  round  her  finger. 

'  'Supposing'  ?"  he  echoed,  breathlessly. 

"Supposing  that  'once  upon  a  time'  there  was  an 
actress  who  came  to  South  Africa,  and  met  a  boy 
she — she  was  silly  enough  to  like  very  much — silly 
enough  to  love  very  much — silly  enough  to  love  as 
/  love  you!  Suppose  they  had  meant  to  go  Home 
together,  and  then  one  morning  learnt  the  boy  was 
much  too  ill,  and  that  the  woman  must  give  up 
everything  to  stay  there  with  him,  or  go  away  alone, 


72  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

and  give  him  up.  If  through  that  first,  long,  dread- 
ful day  she  wasn't  able  to  decide;  if  just  at  first  she 
did  hesitate ;  if  she  tried  to  stamp  her  love  out,  only 
to  find — what  she  might  have  known  at  the  begin- 
ning— that  it  was  worth  more  to  her  than  the  stage, 
more  than  her  Paris,  more  to  her  than  her  life;  if 
she  cried  to  him,  'Willy,  I'm  ashamed  of  myself! 
Forgive  me,  and  let  me  stop !' — what  do  you  think 
the  boy  would  say?" 

"Rosa!" 

"I  love  you!  I  love  you!  I  love  you!"  she  mut- 
tered, straining  him  to  her. 

"You  will  not  have  so  long  to  wait  as  you  think," 
he  said. 

"You  will  live  for  ever,"  she  swore;  "you  shall 
be  immortal!" 

They  went  the  following  day  to  view  the  tiny 
house  whose  exterior  had  delighted  her  so  in  pass- 
ing. It  was  to  be  let  furnished,  and  the  old,  white- 
haired  negress  she  had  seen  in  the  garden  was 
prepared  to  remain  as  servant.  They  settled  to  take 
it  on  the  spot,  and  less  than  a  week  later  they  were 
installed. 

The  afternoon  that  they  moved  in,  Polly  went 
into  town  alone.  She  explained  that  she  wanted 
to  buy  some  trifle — a  shade  for  the  lamp — and 
Willy,  who  was  taking  as  vivid  an  interest  in  the 
arrangement  of  their  home  as  if  he  could  see  it, 


THE   LAURELS  AND   THE    LADY  73 

discussed  the  projected  colour  with  her  at  great 
length. 

She  left  him  on  the  stoep,  in  a  position  where 
she  would  catch  sight  of  him  on  her  return  at  the 
moment  she  reached  the  gate;  but  when  her  pur- 
chase was  made,  she  did  not  hasten  to  rejoin  him 
there.  She  turned,  instead,  up  Adderley  Street,  and 
entered  the  Government  Gardens.  There  was  a  big 
building  on  her  right,  near  the  foot  of  the  avenue, 
and  she  went  into  it.  The  stone  over  the  doorway 
was  inscribed  with  the  words  "Public  Library." 

"Please,"  she  said  nervously  to  the  gentleman  who 
was  standing  behind  the  counter,  "I  want  a  criti- 
cism on  a  book  of  poems.  It  doesn't  matter  what 
poems  they  are,  or  who  wrote  them;  but  they  must 
be  fine  poems,  and  the  critic  must  say  that  the  poet 
is  a  genius — a  great  genius — one  of  the  greatest 
geniuses  in  the  world!  Can  you  help  me?" 

The  librarian  was  a  man  who  had  strong  views 
as  to  what  everybody  else  should  read.  He  dis- 
played dryasdust  volumes,  designed  to  raise  the  taste 
of  Cape  Town,  in  a  prominent  glass-case,  that  un- 
wary people  might  be  lured  into  asking  for  them, 
and  shuddered  when  he  gave  out  a  novel.  A  demand 
on  him  so  vague  as  this,  however,  took  him  aback. 

"What  kind  of  poet?"  he  said.  "There  have  been 
many  fine  poets.  Do  you  mean  one  who  is  writing 
now?" 


74  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"I  really  don't  mind  at  all,"  answered  Polly,  im- 
partially, "so  long  as  he  is  good." 

"We  have  just  received  a  work  that  might  suit 
you,  perhaps,"  he  said.  "How  would  this  do?"  He 
handed  her  "Victorian  Poets,"  by  Stedman.  "If 
you  go  into  the  reading-room,  you  can  glance  through 
it  at  your  leisure." 

She  clutched  the  fat  green  volume  thankfully,  and, 
taking  a  chair  at  one  of  the  tables  where  there  were 
pens  and  ink,  hurriedly  skimmed  the  contents. 

The  names  looked  promising  enough.  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Swinburne,  a  host  met  her  eye,  including 
dozens  of  whom  she  had  never  heard.  Settling  her- 
self to  the  perusal,  though,  it  seemed  to  her  eager- 
ness that  the  author  perceived  more  faults  than 
merits  even  in  the  best  of  them,  and  nowhere  could 
she  encounter  exactly  what  she  sought. 

At  length,  after  infinite  pains,  she  culled  a  selec- 
tion of  appreciative  paragraphs,  and  contrived  to 
dovetail  them  into  a  fairly  consistent  whole;  but 
a  panegyric  on  Byron,  that  she  observed  too  late 
to  insert  satisfactorily,  without  omitting  a  eulogy 
of  Keats,  prevented  her  feeling  the  satisfaction  with 
her  performance  to  which  it  was  entitled. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged,"  she  said,  in  restoring 
the  book. 

"Have  you  found  what  you  wanted?"  asked  the 
librarian,  curiously. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  she  declared,  "at  least  it  will 


THE   LAURELS  AND  THE   LADY  75 

do  for  the  present;  but  I  shall  have  to  come  several 
times  again." 

She  now  proceeded  to  the  station,  and  reached  the 
garden  just  as  it  was  reddened  by  the  sunset.  Willy 
was  still  where  she  had  left  him.  She  took  off  her 
outdoor  things,  and  came  out,  and  went  to  his  side. 
She  had  a  weekly  London  paper  she  had  bought,  in 
one  hand — a  Paper  he  had  often  referred  to  latterly 
with  awe  and  anticipation — and  behind  her  she  held 
her  sheet  of  foolscap.  She  gave  him  the  paper. 

"Sweetheart,"  she  said,  "I  have  brought  you  your 
first  review." 

He  fell  to  trembling,  pale  to  the  lips. 

"What  do  they  say?"  he  whispered.  "What  is 
it  in?" 

She  mentioned  the  Paper's  name.  "Shall  I  read 
it  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  reverently,  "let  me  hear!" 

She  took  a  seat  a  few  feet  away,  and  read. 

'The  minor  poetry  of  the  last  few  years,'  she 
began,  'is  of  a  strangely  composite  order.  We  can 
see  that  the  long-unpopular  Browning  at  length  has 
become  a  potent  force  as  the  pioneer  of  a  half- 
dramatic,  half-psychological  method,  whose  adher- 
ents seek  a  change  from  the  idyllic  repose  of  Tenny- 
son and  his  followers.  With  this  intent,  and  with 
a  strong  leaning  towards  the  art  studies  and  convic- 
tions of  the  Rossetti  group,  a  Neo-Romantic  School 
has  arisen,  in  which  Mr.  William  Childers,  whose 


76  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

Reveries  is  now  under  our  consideration,  leaps  at  a 
bound  into  the  foremost  place.  His  songs  resemble 
those  of  Rossetti  in  terseness  and  beauty,  while  with 
Browning  they  escape  at  times  to  that  stronghold 
whither  science  and  materialism  are  not  prepared 
to  follow.  Art  so  complex  as  Mr.  Childers'  was 
not  possible  until  centuries  of  literature  had  passed, 
and  an  artist  could  overlook  the  field,  essay  each 
style,  and  evolve  a  metrical  result  which  should  be 
to  that  of  earlier  periods  what  the  music  of  Meyer- 
beer and  Rossini  is  to  the  narrower  range  of  Piccini 
or  Gluck.  All  must  acknowledge  that  Sic  Itur  ad 
Astra  is  perfect  of  its  kind.  Take  this  and  that 
exquisite  ode,  To  a  memory,  or  My  Soul  and  I!  We 
call  them  poetry;  poetry  of  the  lasting  sort,  and 
attractive  to  successive  generations.  We  believe  that 
they  will  be  read  when  many  years  have  passed  away; 
that  they  will  be  picked  out  and  treasured  by  future 
compilers.' ' 

She  paused,  that  he  might  breathe.  Heaven  had 
fallen  into  the  Rondebosch  garden,  and  its  glory 
was  flooding  him. 

Presently  she  bent  over  her  manuscript  again,  and 
read  on  for  several  minutes  to  the  end. 

When  she  had  finished  they  did  not  speak,  by 
any  words.  She  leant  her  head  upon  his  breast,  while 
his  soul  uttered  a  thanksgiving  upon  the  eminence  to 
which  her  lie  had  raised  him.  He  had  touched  the 
apex.  He  was  tasting  an  intenser  joy  than  comes 


THE    LAURELS   AND   THE    LADY  77 

to  one  man  among  millions — a  joy  so  keen  that  few 
of  us  have  the  imagination  to  conceive  it. 

"Are  you  happy?" 

"  'Happy' !"  His  voice  was  broken,  and  he  pressed 
his  hands  over  his  heart.  "You  and  Fame!  Can 
life  have  any  more  to  yield?" 

"It  shall  be  so  for  you  always — always!"  she 
murmured.  "Let  us  go  in." 

The  brief  Cape  twilight  was  beginning  to  fall  out- 
side, and  she  lit  the  lamp.  Viewed  from  the  room, 
the  garden  was  full  of  tender  tints.  She  led  him  to 
a  seat  and  kissed  him. 

"Your  chair  in  Our  Home!"  she  said.  "Oh,  and 
the  shade !  I  had  forgotten  it." 

"What  colour  did  you  choose,  after  all,  Rosa?" 

"It  is  couleur  de  rose!"  said  Polly.  And  she  put 
it  on. 

There  was,  twelve  months  later,  living  on  the 
border  of  Mowbray  and  Rondebosch,  a  famous  poet. 
He  had  never  spoken  with  his  publishers,  but  from 
time  to  time  they  wrote  to  him,  in  terms  of  respect- 
ful admiration,  and  then  the  celebrated  actress,  who 
shared  his  exile,  and  acted  as  his  amanuensis,  read 
their  letters  to  him,  and  subsequently  cashed  the 
small  drafts  that  they  apologetically  enclosed.  At 
the  primitive  shops  from  which  the  villa  was  sup- 
plied, the  pair  was  known  as  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chil- 
ders,"  but  as  they  had  not  been  to  the  church,  none 


78  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

of  the  neighbours  called  upon  them,  and  since  the 
poet,  being  blind,  was  always  attended  by  the  actress, 
he  made  no  acquaintances  in  his  walks.  He  had 
recently  published  his  second  work,  which,  if  pos- 
sible, had  increased  the  reputation  he  had  won  by 
his  first.  The  two  volumes  were  the  most  treasured 
of  his  possessions,  and  from  the  shelf  on  which  they 
were  kept  he  often  took  them  down  and  fondled 
them.  To  a  stranger  who  parted  the  expensive  cov- 
ers, the  contents  might  have  appeared  startling  in 
the  face  of  so  much  pride;  indeed,  he  might  have 
been  pardoned  the  impression  that  he  was  looking 
at  Mavor's  Spelling  Book  and  a  child's  History  of 
England.  But  the  poet  handled  them  rapturously. 
To  touch  them  was  almost  as  thrilling  as  to  embrace 
his  plain  companion,  whom  he  always  addressed  by 
a  name  that  was  not  hers,  and  whom,  inexplicably, 
he  believed  to  be  so  beautiful. 


THE   BACK  OF  BOHEMIA 


As  TWO  ladies  came  out  of  the  florist's  in  the  Rue 
Royale,  and  moved  towards  their  carriage,  the 
younger  of  the  pair  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  and 
exclaimed — 

"Ernest!" 

"Who?"  said  Lady  Liddington,  vaguely. 
"What?" 

Her  niece  was  already  shaking  hands  with  him — 
a  young  man  with  a  voluminous  neck-tie  and  a  soft 
felt  hat,  who  looked  poor  and  clever  and  Bohemian. 

"Ernest,"  she  cried,  "how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  I" 

"Kate !  Who  would  have  thought  of  meeting 
you  over  here !"  He  gazed  at  her  with  astonish- 
ment and  admiration.  "I  should  hardly  have  recog- 
nised you." 

"I've  grown  up !  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
aunt,  Lady  Liddington. — You've  often  heard  of 
Ernest,  Aunt  Madge!  I  was  his  first  critic. — And 
your  mother  and  father?" 

"Quite  well,  thanks." 

"They  are  with  you?" 

79 


80  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

"No,  oh  no;  they  are  still  in  Coblenz.  The  gov- 
ernor grumbles  to  me  regularly  every  month;  the 
mater  bears  it  better.  Poor  old  governor!  he  was 
meant  to  lounge  through  life  with  a  rose-bud  in 
his  buttonhole,  wasn't  he?  I've  been  living  in  Paris 
nearly  five  years  now." 

"And  working?" 

"And  working!    I'm  a  painter  of  sorts  at  last." 

"I  can  see  you're  a  painter,"  laughed  the  girl, 
with  a  glance  at  the  flowing  bow.  "Why  'of  sorts'  ?" 

"Art  is  a  very  arduous  profession,  I  believe,"  mur- 
mured Lady  Liddington,  politely.  She  was  men- 
tally praying  that  no  one  who  knew  her  would  hap- 
pen to  pass  while  they  were  standing  here.  Really 
the  young  man  cut  a  figure!  "Do  you  exhibit?" 

"Not  yet     I  only  sell." 

"Indeed?    I  always  understood " 

"I  am  at  the  lowest  of  the  practical  stages,  Lady 
Liddington.  At  present  I  sell — somehow!  Later 
on  I  shall  manage  to  exhibit,  and  be  unable  to  sell. 
Finally  I  hope  to  exhibit  and  sell,  too.  But  the  way 
is  long." 

"I  see,"  she  replied,  profoundly  uninterested. 

"A  real  live  artist!"  said  Miss  Ormerod,  gaily. 
"How  proud  you  must  be !  It  seems  only  the  other 
day  you  were  a  boy  at  home,  dreaming  dreams." 

"Yes,  I  was  good  at  dreams,"  he  confessed; 
"dreams  don't  want  anatomy.  How  well  I  remem- 
ber it  all !  But  I  am  keeping  you." 


THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  8 1 

"You  must  come  and  see  us,"  she  said,  "and  soon ! 
I  have  a  hundred  questions  to  ask  you.  What  are 
we  doing  to-morrow,  Aunt  Madge?" 

"Er — to-morrow?  There  is  the  Elysee  in  the 
evening,  you  know,  and  the  next  night,  I  am 
afraid But  if  to-morrow  afternoon " 

"I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  he  declared.  He  re- 
peated the  address,  and  raised  his  distressing  hat. 
The  victoria  drove  away,  and  the  two  occupants 
mused  a  moment,  Kate  Ormerod  smiling. 

The  first  to  speak  was  the  chaperon  whom  nature 
had  never  intended  for  one. 

"Your  introduction  was  delicious,"  she  said. 
"Who  is  the  gentleman  you  have  made  me  ask 
home?" 

"Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  him? — Ernest!" 

"Yes,  I  heard  you  call  him  'Ernest.'  I  shouldn't 
do  it  again  if  I  were  you.  Hasn't  he  a  surname 
by  any  chance?" 

"Not  call  him ?  Oh,  my  dear  aunt,  how  can 

you  be  so  absurd !  He  is  Ernest  Mallock.  Why,  we 
were  almost  like  brother  and  sister  until  his  people 
had  to  leave  'Moyamehane'  and  go  abroad.  My 
mother  must  have  spoken  of  them  to  you  a  thousand 
times." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Liddington,  "he  is  Cyril  Mai- 
lock's  son,  is  he?  But  you  are  not  in  the  wilds  of 
County  Roscommon  now,  remember;  you  are  neither 
of  you  children  any  more,  and " 


82  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

"And  the  Mallocks  have  lost  all  their  money," 
concluded  Miss  Ormerod,  with  warmth.  "Don't 
leave  that  out,  because  it's  really  what  you  mean ! 
Yes,  they  are  ruined — and  what  of  it?  If  you  think 
it  is  any  reason  why  I  should  pass  a  boy  in  the 
streets  who " 

"My  dear,"  said  the  other,  plaintively,  "I  did  not 
suggest  that  you  should  pass  anybody  in  the  streets. 

You  know  I  did  not !  I  only  hinted It  is  very 

unkind  of  you,  Kate,  to  make  such  accusations." 

The  girl  turned  apologetically. 

"Poor  Aunt  Madge !  Yes,  I  was  bolting,  wasn't 
I?  I'm  sorry.  But  if  you  knew  how  happy  it  made 
me  to  see  him — it  was  like  a  bit  of  my  childhood 
crossing  the  road  to  me !  It  was  Ernest  who  taught 
me  to  sit  a  horse  and  how  to  throw  a  fly.  It  was 
Ernest  who  taught  me  not  to  paint.  He  used  to  kiss 
me  up  to  the  time  I  was  fifteen." 

"My  child!"  gasped  her  aunt,  looking  apprehen- 
sively at  the  coachman's  back.  "Don't!  So  he  is 
Lord  Fernahoe's  nephew,  that  young  man  in  the 
remarkable  costume?  How  painful!  Of  course  he 
has  no  chance  of  the  succession,  not  the  slightest. 
Fernahoe  has  a  son,  and  I've  met  him.  He  is  twenty 
years  of  age,  and  quite  offensively  robust.  Wins  cups 
and  things,  and  takes  absurd  dumb-bells  in  his  port- 
manteau when  he  stays  anywhere.  Your  friend  can 
go  on  dressing  like  a  disreputable  glazier  for  ever, 
if  that  is  the  only  prospect  he  can  boast" 


THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  83 

"I  don't  suppose  he  even  thinks  of  it.  His  clothes 
seem  to  jar  you  like  an  Anarchist  banner.  He  used 
to  be  rather  a  dandy,  I  can  tell  you,  until  the  crash 
came.  And  Lord  Fernahoe  might  have  paid  off  the 
mortgage  without  feeling  it — hateful  man !  But  he 
quarrelled  with  the  Mallocks  years  ago." 

"Very  strange,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  his  brother  did 
something  disgraceful." 

"Aunt !  Why  on  earth  should  it  be  Mr.  Mallock's 
fault?" 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  said  Lady 
Liddington.  "Only  one  of  them  must  have  been 
to  blame,  it  is  very  certain,  and  it  is  always  pleasanter 
to  blame  the  people  you  don't  meet;  don't  you  think 
so?  How  sweet  those  roses  smell,  but  what  a  mon- 
strous price !  I'm  sorry  we  bought  them." 

Men  said  of  Madge  Liddington  that  she  was  "a 
good  sort."  Her  worldliness  was  not  disagreeable 
— not  too  real.  Of  herself  she  said  that  she  knew 
what  she  ought  to  do,  but  somehow  never  did  it. 
Her  theories  were  more  cynical  than  her  heart,  and 
on  the  morrow,  when  Ernest  Mallock  came,  she  was 
gracious,  and  even  cordial. 

He  had  made  some  concessions  to  the  occasion. 
His  toilette,  if  shabby,  was  less  unconventional  to- 
day, and  obviously  he  had  no  idea  of  falling  in  love 
with  Kate.  They  chatted  quite  freely.  There  was 
too  little  formality  between  them  for  a  chaperon 
to  be  wholly  pleased,  but,  at  the  same  time,  too 


84  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

little  to  suggest  the  existence  of  sentiment  on  either 
side. 

"Tell  me  all!"  said  Miss  Ormerod.  "Tell  me 
frankly.  Does  it  come  up  to  your  expectations? 
You're  a  painter,  you're  in  Paris,  you're  in  Bohemia : 
is  it  quite  as  lovely  as  you  thought  it  was  going  to 
be  ?  Does  everybody  talk  'Art,'  and  rave  about  the 
time  when  he  will  'make  a  school,'  and  discuss  his 
'methods'  over  'bocks'  and  cigarettes?  What  are 
you  painting  now — can  we  see  your  studio?" 

"What  am  I  to  answer  first?"  he  laughed. 

"Don't  answer  anything — talk !  Tell  me  what  the 
life  is  like!" 

"It's  very  much  like  what  I  looked  for.  Yes, 
some  of  us  do  prose  about  our  methods,  I'm  afraid, 
and  we  drink  a  great  many  bocks — when  we've  the 
money  to  pay  for  them — and  my  Paris  isn't  a  bit  like 
your  Paris;  it's  a  different  world." 

"It  must  be  heavenly!  If  I  had  had  any  talent  I 
should  have  loved  to  go  in  for  it  myself!  And  do 
you  know  any  clever  people  besides  artists  ?  Authors 
and  actors,  I  mean?  Do  you  know  any  people  with 
long  hair?  Frenchmen  seem  to  go  to  one  extreme  or 
the  other — they  either  wear  their  hair  waving  in 
the  breeze,  or  they  have  it  cut  too  short  to  part  it, 
even.  All  the  people  who  come  here  are  the  cropped 
and  dull  ones. 

"Kate!" 


THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  85 

"Well,  they  are,  Aunt  Madge.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
Sardou,  or  Alphonse  Daudet,  or  Sarah  Bernhardt?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't.  I  know  one  or  two  English  correspond- 
ents. I  did  a  piece  of  newspaper  work  myself  not 
long  ago." 

"Really?" 

"In  collaboration,  yes.  Gladstone  was  expected  in 
Paris,  and  my  friend  thought  he'd  like  to  send  an 
'Interview'  with  him  to  his  paper.  We  wrote  it 
together  at  one  of  the  tables  outside  a  cafe  on  the 
Boul'  Miche'  while  Gladstone  was  still  travelling 
towards  the  Gare  du  Nord.  We  credited  him  with 
some  very  interesting  views." 

"Oh!" 

"So  that's  journalism?" 

"No,  scarcely,  Lady  Liddington;  it's  a  secret." 

"And  do  you  prefer  living  here  to  being  in  Lon- 
don," she  inquired,  "or  couldn't  you  work  so  well 
at  home,  Mr.  Mallock?" 

"I've  scarcely  thought  about  iu"  he  replied,  with 
a  shrug;  "this  is  my  home  now.  Oh,  I  should  say 
London  would  be  ghastly — unless  one  were  a  Fitz 
John's  Avenue  gentleman,  making  a  big  income.  For 
the  smaller. fry " 

"Too  dreary?" 

He  shuddered.  "What  could  one  do  with  one's 
self?  I've  heard  about  it!  One  fellow  I  meet  works 
for  London  from  here — black-and-white  work,  you 


86  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

know.  Oh,  rather  funny !  Did  you  ever  see  a  maga- 
zine called  The  Lantern?  It's  very  'earnest' — and 
only  sixpence.  Last  month  poor  Tassie  had  to  illus- 
trate the  line,  'He  strolled  meditatively  through  the 
summer  night.'  He  made  the  man  lighting  a  cigar. 
The  other  day  he  got  his  sketch  back.  The  editor 
was  politely  sorry,  'But  in  The  Lantern  they  didn't 
smoke.'  " 

He  stayed  an  hour,  and,  under  the  circumstances, 
could  one  do  less,  when  he  rose,  than  fix  an  evening 
for  his  dining  there  ?  After  he  had  dined  there,  what 
more  natural  than  that  he  should  call? 

Two  afternoon  visits,  a  dinner,  and  a  strong 
friendship  with  one  of  his  hostesses :  the  earlier  inti- 
macy was  fairly  renewed,  and  Lady  Liddington 
resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable  without  further 
struggling. 

They  now  saw  him  frequently.  He  sent  them 
tickets  for  the  clubs,  and  met  them  there  to  explain 
the  pictures'  merits;  and  if  the  elder  woman,  failing 
to  understand  why  magenta  cattle  should  graze  on 
purple  grass,  sometimes  sat  down  with  a  headache, 
and  left  Kate  to  wander  round  the  rooms  with  him 
alone,  was  she  a  chaperon  without  defence? 

No,  they  were  not  in  love,  but  they  were  in  dan- 
ger. He  had  begun  to  look  forward  to  these  meet- 
ings, and  so  had  the  girl.  He  interested  her;  she 
was  sympathetic  to  him.  He  had  been  right  when 
he  said  that  they  belonged  to  different  worlds;  and 


THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  87 

that  their  lives  were  the  antithesis  of  each  other 
had  itself  a  fascination,  the  deeper  for  the  fact  that 
they  had  once  been  almost  the  same.  He  knew  his 
Bullier,  his  Clichy,  the  minor  studios,  and  the 
cheaper  cafes;  he  was  not  unfamiliar  with  the  inte- 
rior of  the  nearest  Mont  de  Piete;  but  of  the  Paris 
unfolded  to  Lady  Liddington's  niece  he  knew  very 
little.  It  was  a  novel  experience  to  him  to  see  a 
dinner-table  poetised  by  flowers  and  a  Salviati  ser- 
vice. It  was  even  a  strange  thing  to  Ernest  Mallock 
to  be  sitting  in  a  room  with  two  ladies,  and  listening 
to  ladies'  conversation. 

If  he  told  himself  he  was  being  a  fool,  in  moments 
of  candour,  as  the  weeks  passed,  it  must  be  conceded 
that  the  temptation  was  a  strong  one;  but  it  must 
also  be  acknowledged  that  he  spoke  the  truth.  He 
was  already  thinking  much  too  often  of  Miss  Or- 
merod  for  a  man  who  could  not  hope  to  marry 
her,  and  yet  he  was  continuing  to  see  her  because  he 
was  too  weak  to  stay  away. 

Then  he  knew  that  he  loved  her.  He  ceased  at 
length  to  excuse  himself  by  saying  he  found  her 
"companionable,"  "simpatica"  that  there  was  "noth- 
ing in  it."  He  knew  he  loved  her;  that  the  world 
was  peopled  by  men,  women,  and  Kate  Ormerod; 
that  she  stood  on  a  plane  by  herself — different  from 
everyone. 

Paris  now — the  Paris  that  was  open  to  him — 
stank  in  his  nostrils.  When  he  could  not  be  with 


88  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

her  in  the  daytime,  he  worked  doggedly,  and  badly, 
finding  occupation  a  relief  to  his  feverish  impatience ; 
but  in  the  evening  to  paint  was  impossible,  and  it  was 
in  the  evenings  that  he  ate  his  heart  out. 

He  had  not  the  faintest  right  ever  to  own  his 
feelings  to  her,  and  he  was  aware  of  it.  If  he  acted 
properly,  he  would  declare  he  was  leaving  the  city, 
and  say  good-bye,  but  he  could  not  nerve  himself 
to  the  necessary  point. 

And  after  all,  he  argued,  since  he  confessed  noth- 
ing, asked  for  nothing,  why  should  he  deny  himself 
the  only  happiness  he  possessed?  Yes,  he  was  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  her — but,  if  he  didn't  say  so, 
what  harm  did  it  do?  It  would  end  by  making  him 
infernally  miserable?  Well,  that  was  his  affair;  he 
would  be  infernally  miserable  anyhow ! 

If  the  man  was  not  disposed  to  do  his  duty,  how- 
ever, the  time  had  arrived  when  Lady  Liddington 
could  not  shirk  hers.  One  morning,  when  he  called 
with  some  tickets,  and  was  shown  into  the  drawing- 
room,  she  was  in  it  alone,  reading  a  Tauchnitz  novel. 
Kate  was  practising,  he  was  told;  indeed,  he  could 
hear  the  piano. 

"I  was  going  to  send  you  a  note,"  said  Lady 
Liddington;  "we  are  returning  to  London." 

He  stared  at  her  blankly. 

"It's  a  terrible  bore.  We  intended  remaining 
fully  two  months  longer,  but  my  letters  this  morning 
make  it  imperative." 


THE    BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  89 

"You  go  soon?" 

"To-morrow.  And  I  am  such  a  wretched  sailor. 
Pity  me !" 

Miss  Ormerod  had  begun  Chopin's  Second  Noc- 
turne. Mallock  followed  a  line  of  it  intensely,  with- 
out realising  he  was  listening.  He  felt  that  he  had 
turned  pale,  and  that  it  was  essential  to  say  some- 
thing if  he  did  not  wish  to  look  remarkable,  but  his 
mind  refused  to  yield  a  commonplace.  Lady  Lid- 
dington,  who  had  avoided  plain-speaking  with  her 
niece  by  means  of  the  same  pretext,  was  no  longer 
confident  that  she  had  escaped  its  necessity. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  at  length.  He  played  with 
the  book  she  had  put  down.  "Is  it  good?"  he  asked 
desperately. 

"It's  a  romance,"  she  replied.  "No,  stereotyped! 
A  romance  always  ends  with  a  marriage." 

"Isn't  that  realistic?"  he  said.  "Marriage  is  al- 
ways the  end  of  romance." 

"You  are  practical,  Mr.  Mallock." 

"It  is  the  last  virtue  I  shall  ever  attain,  I  regret 
to  say,"  he  stammered,  hot  with  the  sudden  fear 
that  she  might  be  imputing  mercenary  motives. 

Their  gaze  met  in  a  pause,  and  she  answered 
him  gently. 

"Why  regret  it,  after  all?"  she  murmured.  "To 
be  practical  is  often  distressing." 

"This  is  au  revoir,  then?"  He  got  up.  "Shall  I 
see  Miss  Ormerod?" 


90  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"I  don't  think  she  has  been  told  you're  here.  I'll 
let  her  know." 

"Pray  don't  trouble.  I  can  wish  her  good-bye 
as  I  pass  the  room.  I  hope  you  will  have  a  smooth 
crossing." 

He  was  not  forbidden,  and  his  face  thanked  her 
as  he  took  up  his  hat. 

Kate  lifted  her  head  as  the  handle  turned. 

"You!" 

"So  you  are  going  away?"  he  said  huskily. 

"We  go  to-morrow,"  she  averred,  looking  at  the 
keys  of  the  piano.  Her  voice  was  nervous. 

"Your  aunt  just  told  me.    I  shan't  see  you  again." 

"Not  before  we  leave,  I  suppose." 

"I  mayn't  see  you  again  at  all.  Perhaps  you  won't 
come  back  to  Paris." 

"Oh,  surely,  some  time." 

"I  shall  miss  you  horribly,"  he  declared.  "I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  without  you." 

"We  have  been  very  good  friends."  She  stroked 
a  note  slowly  with  her  finger.  "It  seems  a  long 
while." 

"Good-bye!"  said  Mallock,  jerkily.  He  put  out 
his  hand,  and  she  rose,  extending  her  own.  His 
misery  glowed  in  his  eyes.  In  hers — but  he  dared 
not  read  them !  He  caught  the  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
kissed  it,  and  went  out.  Lady  Liddington  heard 
the  door  close.  The  Nocturne,  however,  was  not 
resumed. 


THE    BACK   OF    BOHEMIA  9! 


II 


WELL,  his  paradise  was  ended!  He  was  more 
wretched  than  he  had  ever  been  before  in  his  life. 
He  walked  away  heavily,  without  a  destination  in 
his  mind.  Where  he  went  was  nothing  to  him.  Out- 
side the  Grand  Hotel  he  brushed  against  a  gentleman 
hurrying  from  the  courtyard,  and  with  a  muttered 
apology  would  have  passed  on.  Both  looked  round. 
The  gentleman  was  his  father. 

Almost  with  his  ejaculation  of  astonishment,  Mai- 
lock  saw  that  he  was  dressed  in  mourning.  The 
asphalte  and  the  trees  lurched.  "Good  God,"  he 
gasped,  "my  mother ?" 

"Your  mother  was  never  better,"  exclaimed  the 
other  gaily,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder;  "she  sends 
her  love,  and  a  thousand  messages !  I  only  got  in 
an  hour  ago ;  I  was  just  taking  a  cab  up  to  you.  Let 
me  look  at  you.  Well,  well,  well !  it  is  good  to  see 
you  again,  Ernest.  You  know  the  news,  don't  you?" 

"News?    No,  what  news?" 
''What  news!'     Is  it  possible?     Prepare  your- 
self."    He  chuckled.     "Prepare  yourself,  my  boy." 

"Governor,  is  it  something  good?" 

"It  is  very  shocking,"  returned  his  father,  sud- 
denly struggling  after  an  expression  of  great  solem- 
nity, "very  lamentable  !  But — er — as  it  is  years  since 
we  met  them,  of  course My  brother  and  his 


92  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

son  are  both  dead,  Ernest — drowned.  There  was 
a  yacht  accident.  Poor  Maurice !  He  had  his  faults, 
but — ah,  poor  Maurice !  Let's  go  inside — you 
haven't  had  luncheon,  have  you?  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

The  Bohemian  listened,  half  stupefied. 

"You  are  Lord  Fernahoe,"  he  said.  "You  are 
Lord  Fernahoe  now?  And  I " 

"You  are  the  Honourable  Ernest  Mallock,  yes! 
Better  than  your  profession,  eh?  Not  but  what  you 
might  have  your  studio  still,  if  you  fancied  it.  A 
studio  after  your  own  heart!  It  would  be  rather 
chic !  And  all  the  prettiest  women  would  come  and 
have  their  portraits  painted.  Very  good !  Well,  to 
think  you  didn't  know  it — you  amaze  me !" 

"I  haven't  opened  a  paper  for  a  week.  But — but 
Miss  Ormerod  is  here,  with  Lady  Liddington.  It's 
strange  they  haven't  seen  it." 

"They  have,  you  may  be  sure." 

"I  am  quite  positive  they  haven't  an  idea  of  it. 
Great  heavens,  Governor,  what  a  difference  for 
you!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  peer,  complacently,  "it  will  be 
a  change  after  Coblenz.  I  have  borne  my  reverses, 
Ernest,  I  have  never  complained;  but  my  health  is 
not  what  it  was.  I — I  have  not  the  physique  for  the 
life  of  a  poor  man."  He  spoke  as  if  he  had  been 
condemned  to  be  a  dock-labourer.  "How  do  you 
think  I'm  looking?" 


THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  93 

"You  are  looking  as  well  as  ever — and  as  young." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense !  Ha !  ha !  What  will  you 
drink?  I  think  I  should  like  a  little  champagne— 
my  doctor  advises  champagne.  You  must  order  some 
clothes,  Ernest,  at  once.  You  are — you  are  damned 
shabby.  Go  to  a  tailor  to-day;  don't  forget  it.  What 
are  you  doing  with  yourself  this  evening?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mallock,  "at  least " 

"Nothing  that  won't  wait,  anyhow !     You'll  meet 

me,  and  we'll  have  a  little  dinner  together  at 

Bignon's  is  gone,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Where  do  you  go,  as  a  rule?" 

"I?"  he  smiled  grimly;  "I'm  afraid  my  haunts 
would  hardly  suit  you." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Well,  all  that  is  over! 
You've  grown  very  handsome,  Ernie;  you  remind 
me  of  myself  when  I  was  your  age.  I  may  say  that 
now,  eh — an  old  man?  But  you  look  dazed!  It 
was  a  terrible  affair — poor  Maurice  !  poor  Maurice ! 
— but  don't  keep  looking  so  dazed !" 

"You've  rather  staggered  me,"  said  Mallock, 
gulping  his  wine.  "I — I — if  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
leave  you  now.  Where  shall  we  meet?" 

"Call  for  me  here,"  said  Fernahoe,  airily;  "I 
drove  here  from  the  station.  Say  six  o'clock.  There 
are  some  things  I've  got  to  attend  to:  I  have  to  be 

shaved,  and By  the  way,  to-morrow  I  can  let 

you  have  a  substantial  sum;  in  the  meanwhile,  here's 


94  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

something  to  go  on  with — I  suppose  it  will  be  useful? 
Six  o'clock,  then,  sharp !  And  don't  forget  the  tailor. 
Ta!  ta!" 

"Six  o'clock,"  answered  his  son.  "Thanks!  I 
won't  be  late." 

He  watched  Lord  Fernahoe  sign  to  a  cabman,  and 
instruct  him  to  drive  to  a  coiffeur.  He  stood  stu- 
pidly on  the  curb  there  after  the  cab  had  rattled 
away.  His  eyes  were  wide,  and  his  mouth  set.  After 
a  minute  he  crossed  the  road,  and  turned  down  the 
Avenue  de  1'Opera,  still  gazing  before  him  with  the 
fixed  stare.  Among  the  carriages  of  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  he  hesitated;  he  seemed  in  doubt.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  slouched  on  and  on — 
away  from  fashion,  over  the  Pont  Neuf,  on  to  the 
Quays,  down  to  the  Place  St.  Michel.  On  the  Boule- 
vard one  or  two  threw  him  a  greeting.  He  did  not 
know  it.  His  face  was  deathly  white — now  and 
again  he  smeared  the  moisture  from  it  with  a  hand 
that  shook.  Threading  his  way  through  a  maze  of 
the  dilapidated  streets  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  he  came 
to  a  narrow  entrance  beside  a  shop-window  packed 
high  with  charcoal  and  wood.  There  was  a  flight 
of  dirty  stairs,  and  he  mounted  them  slowly,  and 
opened  a  door. 

The  apartment  was  bedroom  and  salon  in  one. 
The  bed  was  in  disorder;  on  the  table  the  remainder 
of  a  ragout  that  had  been  hot  two  hours  ago  was 
stiffening  in  the  gravy.  A  baby  of  twelvemonths, 


THE    BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  95 

unkempt,  uncared  for,  lay  fretting  upon  two  pillows 
on  the  floor,  and  a  woman  in  a  red  flannel  dressing- 
gown  and  list  slippers  was  sitting  in  an  armchair, 
beading  a  black-satin  cape.  She  turned  her  untidy 
head  at  his  approach,  dropping  a  hair-pin  as  she 
moved. 

"Oh,  here  you  are !"  said  Ernest  Mallock's  wife. 

He  threw  himself  on  the  bed.    "I'm  here." 

"Have  you  brought  back  any  money?" 

"Take  what  you  want!" 

"How's  this?"  she  exclaimed,  with  delight. 
"You're  in  luck,  Ernest!" 

"Yes,"  he  groaned,  "I'm  devilish  lucky!" 

She  stooped  for  the  fallen  hair-pin,  and  picked 
her  teeth  with  it  reflectively. 

"You've  never  sold  that  old  'Solitude,'  surely?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  be  quiet!"  he  said,  "I'm 
tired." 

"Where  have  you  been?  Your  dedgennay's  got 
cold.  Shall  I  hot  it  up  for  you?" 

"No,  never  mind,  Bessy,  thanks." 

"It  won't  take  a  minute." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  she  asked  sullenly. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  it,"  he  declared 
in  a  strained  voice,  "nothing!  But  I  breakfasted 
out." 

"Oh,  you  breakfasted  out?    Who  with?    You've 


g  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

taken  to  breakfasting  out  a  good  deal  of  late,  haven't 
you?  You're  all  alike — a  nice  lot  you  are!  Drink, 
and  pay  for  whoever's  there — one  caffy  after  the 
other — I  know  it!  Never  a  thought  of  your  wives 
at  home !  I  tell  you,  an  artist  has  no  business  with 
a  wife." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  do  'think  so,'  "  she  said,  angrily  imitating 
his  inflection;  "yes,  I  do  'think  so,'  Mr.  Sneerer! 
And  I  tell  you  more:  I  don't  believe  there's  one 
among  the  lot  who  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  have  his 
doings  known.  No,  I  don't — do  you  hear?  I  don't 
believe  there's  one;  there !" 

"Oh!"  he  said  calmly. 

"/  saw  you  the  other  day  in  the  Rue  Scribe,  walk- 
ing with  two  ladies.  Great  swells  they  were — to 
look  at.  You  didn't  see  me,  did  you?  but  /  saw 
you!  Who  were  they,  answer  me  that?" 

"Hush!"  he  said.  "You're  making  a  fool  of 
yourself." 

"Oh,  am  I?  That's  very  easy  to  say!  And  you 
didn't  look  at  the  young  one  as  if  you  worshipped 
her,  did  you?" 

"Be  quiet,"  he  said.  "Now,  then,  be  quiet!  I 
won't  have  you  speak  of  her !" 

"Oh,  what  a  fine  gentleman !  Not  speak  of  her, 
eh?  His  wife  mustn't  so  much  as  speak  of  her! 
Ha  !  ha !  ha !  We've  come  to  a  pretty  pass ! — Listen 
to  your  father,  my  Blessing! — And  her  figure  is 


THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA  97 

nothing  to  brag  of,  either,  for  all  she'd  got  such 
grand  stays  on!  And  her  mouth's  too  wide,  and 
her  hair  wants  tone."  (In  case  women  might  be 
rendered  vain  by  men's  admiration,  God  made  other 
women.)  "I  haven't  been  in  the  studios  for  nothing; 
/  could  see  her  faults,  if  you  didn't!" 

He  clasped  his  hands  on  his  head,  and  lay  mo- 
tionless. 

"I  am  tired,"  he  repeated,  wearily;  "if  you  have 
finished,  I  want  to  sleep." 

But  it  was  not  true — he  wanted  to  think;  he 
wanted  to  curse  himself  and  die.  In  memory  he  was 
re-living  the  night  of  his  first  meeting  with  her — 
an  English  girl  in  a  singing  cellar  off  the  Boulevard 
St.  Martin,  lured  to  Paris  by  a  bogus  advertisement, 
and  insulted,  on  the  evening  of  his  presence,  by  a 
French  student.  He  recalled  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  had  knocked  the  man  down,  and  the  gen- 
eral row  there  had  been,  with  the  cry  of  "English 
chaps  for'ard!"  terminating  by  the  girl  and  him 
standing  bareheaded  outside  on  the  pavement  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  wept  and  blessed  him. 
He  was  a  Sir  Galahad  of  chivalry,  and  afforded  the 
Quarter  another  example  of  "the  English  eccentric- 
ity." After  reflection,  he  offered  to  send  her  home 
to  London.  She  had  been  unhappy  there — she  wept 
again,  and  did  not  want  to  go.  He  found  her  em- 
ployment as  a  model,  and  paid  the  rent  of  the  room 
he  took  for  her,  out  of  his  own  pocket.  She  was 


98  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

pretty;  was  the  end  surprising?  She  thought  she 
was  in  love  with  him — let  him  see  as  much — and  he 
was  in  love  with  his  own  romance.  Whom  had  he 
to  study?  And  life  with  her  would  be  remarkably 
"jolly!"  It  was  a  boy's  infatuation  for  Bohemia, 
while  Bohemia  had  only  shown  a  smile.  Its  front 
had  been  dazzling — he  married  her.  This  was  the 
back  of  it. 

She  had  picked  up  her  work  again,  and  sat  sewing 
irascibly;  he  regarded  her  under  lowered  lids.  She 
was  pretty  still,  but  to  him  her  face  was  more  loath- 
some than  a  leper.  He  hated  each  line  of  it;  her 
footstep,  every  time  she  moved;  each  little  harmless 
habit  that  she  had,  made  his  nerves  ache. 

It  was  half-past  four;  this  evening  he  would  have 
to  confess  his  marriage  to  his  father.  How  could 
he  do  it?  He  must  tell  Bessy  of  the  change  that 
had  come  to  her,  and  witness  her  rejoicing! 

The  hands  of  the  tawdry  French  clock  upon  the 
mantelshelf  crept  on ;  if  he  meant  to  keep  the  appoint- 
ment, he  ought  to  go  soon. 

The  satin  cape  was  nearly  finished.  The  flies  were 
swarming  about  the  sticky  dish  and  settling  on  the 
meat.  When  the  clock  struck  six,  Ernest  Mallock 
was  still  lying  on  the  unmade  bed — looking  at  his 
wife. 


A   WEAK   IMITATION 

Tuesday. 

CABIN  or  intermediate?  It  is  the  question  I  have 
debated  since  I  decided  to  return.  New  York  de- 
clines to  support  me;  nobody  in  London  is  awaiting 
me.  Capital,  translated  into  English  money,  twenty- 
five  pounds — cabin  or  intermediate? 

The  brilliant  adventurer  of  fiction  who  always 
finds  it  wise  to  be  extravagant  would  not  vacillate  an 
instant;  I  know  it.  I  know  how  that  successful  ex- 
travagance of  his  always  warms  my  heart  and  fas- 
cinates me,  so  that  I  follow  his  impecunious  career 
in  hansoms  with  far  more  interest  than  the  struggles 
of  the  hero,  who  is  economical,  and  goes  by  omnibus. 
I  know  how  I  have  admired  him,  and  agreed  with 
him,  and  rather  pined  between  the  paragraphs  for  a 
chance  to  be  brilliant  and  adventurous,  too ;  but  some- 
how, now  the  opening  is  here,  I  don't  seem  made  for 
the  part.  I  seem  to  incline  to  the  hero's  point  of 
view,  which  is  narrow  and  commonplace.  The  op- 
portunity is  magnificent:  twenty-five  pounds,  and  no 
source  of  income  when  I  land!  Nothing  could  be 
finer!  I  see  the  Adventurer  in  the  situation  to  a 
semi-colon.  (A  reference  would  be  made  at  such 

99 


IOO  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

a  crisis  to  his  "irreproachable  linen"  and  "faultless 
clothes.")  He  argues  lazily  that  the  true  economy 
is  to  travel  first-class  on  account  of  the  people  to 
be  met  He  meditates  that  aboard  ship  one  mixes 
with  distinctly  wealthier  persons  than  one  knows  at 
home,  and  adds  that  for  the  creation  of  intimacy 
a  week  at  sea  is  equal  to  a  year  ashore.  Yes,  the 
adventurer  would  go  cabin,  and,  what  is  more,  he 
would  most  certainly  be  playing  a  David-and- Jona- 
than duologue  with  a  desirable  passenger  by  the  time 
of  sighting  Queenstown.  On  the  whole,  I  am  tempted 
to  back  his  choice.  He  is  mercenary  but  acute,  and 
I  shall  risk  it.  By  surface-car  to  Bowling  Green,  and 
then  to  book  a  first-class  passage  by  the  Germanic! 

Wednesday. 

I  have  done  it!  If  I  did  not  invariably  feel  the 
same  way  on  coming  aboard,  I  should  say  there  isn't 
a  soul  on  the  ship  with  whom  I  shall  ever  have  a 
conversation.  Aware  by  experience,  however,  that 
in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  several  individualities 
will  emerge  from  the  crowd — the  last  a  feminine 
individuality  that  I  shall  be  astonished  I  overlooked. 
Also  aware  by  experience  that  she  will  be  the  very 
last  person  I  shall  contrive  to  know.  Not  that  it 
matters  this  trip ;  I  am  here  on  business !  She  will 
attract  me  by  a  suggestion  of  disdain,  an  air  of 
"le  hlg  lif"  and  prove  on  acquaintance  perfectly 
natural.  I  shall  believe  her  oblivious  to  men's  exist- 


A   WEAK   IMITATION  IOI 

ence,  and  she  will  own  later  that  she  tried  to  guess 
my  profession,  or  wondered  if  I  meant  to  speak  to 
her.  Whereat  I  shall  be  flattered,  and  at  the  same 
time  disenchanted  a  shade. 

The  familiar  first  feature  of  a  voyage  has  oc- 
curred. Exchanged  a  few  words  with  some  man 
on  deck,  and  re-encountered  him  in  the  smoking- 
room,  where  we  resumed  the  chat.  Told  me  he  has 
been  to  New  York  on  pleasure;  must  be  mad!  Has 
an  elderly  stockbroker  sort  of  cut  about  him,  but  do 
not  know  what  he  is,  as  we  were  not  confidential. 
Must  admit  that  if  he  had  been  an  American,  instead 
of  a  compatriot,  I  should  be  in  full  possession  of 
his  biography — related  with  that  superficial  simplic- 
ity of  Cousin  Jonathan  which  is  as  charming  as  it 
is  deceptive.  Other  compatriot  sits  opposite  me  at 
table.  Travelling  with  "Charles,  his  friend,"  to 
whom  he  recited  all  the  French  of  the  bill  of  fare  in 
patronising  tones  for  the  admiration  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Later  pronounced  "plover"  phonetically, 
and  "Charles,  his  friend,"  corrected  him.  Situation 
strained! 

Passenger-lists  crowned  the  serviettes,  and,  faith- 
ful to  my  model,  I  have  been  carefully  through  one. 
There  is  a  lord  among  us !  The  model  would  have 
"scanned  it  keenly"  over  a  brandy-and-soda,  but  at 
that  point  the  copy  fell  short.  To  the  height  of 
brandy-and-soda  I  cannot  soar.  I  am  travelling  first- 
class,  and  I  have  examined  the  passenger-list.  To 


102  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

carry  the  imitation  to  the  length  of  a  wine  bill  is 
asking  too  much  of  a  novice.  May,  of  course,  look 
mean  at  dinner  without  the  conventional  claret,  but 
if  I  deny  myself  beer  (which  I  want)  and  spend  the 
money  on  Apollinaris  (which  makes  me  ill),  per- 
haps I  can  convey  the  idea  of  abstinence  from  mo- 
tives of  hygiene.  Am  going  around  on  the  track  of 
the  lord! 

Thursday. 

Not  found  him !  He  might  get  me  a  Government 
appointment,  and  I  can't  discover  which  he  is.  Don't 
like  to  inquire — the  "love  of  Tommy,"  and  all  that ! 
I  thought  I  had  identified  him  once ;  but  it  was  only 
a  major.  It  is  exasperating;  twenty-four  hours  gone 
without  result.  And  this  boat  makes  a  fast  passage ! 
Merely  rich  people  are  no  use  to  me,  but  there  are 
enough  dollars  on  board — including  the  reputed  con- 
tract of  a  variety  actress — to  sink  the  ship.  She 
(not  the  ship,  the  actress)  has  already  established 
a  little  coterie  of  admirers;  they  form  a  rather  noisy 
semi-circle  which  the  other  women  (and  the  men 
who  don't  belong  to  it)  eye  with  envious  reprobation. 
Funny  the  curiosity  a  professional  excites  in  the 
philistine.  Spoke  to  her,  and  referred  to  it.  She 
said:  "Sakes,  they  stare  at  me  as  if  I  was  a 
'Freak!'"  Think  "freak"  is  good!  I  found  the 
semi-circle  very  jolly,  and  enjoyed  myself. 

Have  had  another  promenade  with  him  of  the 
stockbroker  aspect.  He  was  alone — he  always  is — 


A   WEAK   IMITATION  103 

and  seemed  encouraged  when  I  told  him  it  was  a 
nice  day.  Found  him  "doing  the  mile"  with  melan- 
choly determination,  and  bore  him  company. 

She  has  appeared !  She  is  younger  than  usual. 
Saw  her  as  we  registered  two-thirds  of  our  "consti- 
tutional." She  wears  a  tailor-made  jacket,  and  a 
sailor-hat  with  a  wisp  of  veil  attached,  deliciously 
incongruous  and  feminine.  Her  eyes  met  mine  ab- 
sently, as  if  she  did  not  know  I  was  there.  If 
anything  stimulates  me  to  get  friendly  with  a  pretty 
woman  it  is  being  looked  at  as  if  she  didn't  know 
I  was  there!  I  think  the  eyes  are  gray.  She  does 
not  seem  to  have  any  companion  with  her,  and  gives 
one  the  idea  of  being  unmarried.  Have  not  learnt 
her  name  yet,  though;  she  was  reading  when  we 
passed  again,  and  the  back  of  her  chair  was  hidden. 
Mean  to  glance  at  the  initials  on  it  when  she  goes 
below.  Wish  I  could  break  the  ice,  and  inaugurate 
a  series  of  talks  with  her,  but  it  is  a  wish  and  not 
an  intention:  no  time  to  spare  for  enjoyment!  The 
bugle  is  tooting  for  luncheon;  unless  she  is  ill  she 
will  move.  .  .  . 

She  was  just  rising  as  I  reached  her — they  are 
gray !  Left  the  book  in  her  place — "Aurora  Leigh" 
— and  a  glove;  size,  five-and-a-fraction,  or  I'm  a 
Yankee.  Her  chair  is  marked  "N.B."  (Superflu- 
ous injunction!)  She  is  "Miss  Nellie  Bret" — found 
it  in  the  passenger  list.  If  I  did  have  the  leisure 
now But  it  is  out  of  the  question ! 


104  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

Friday. 

It  was  a  moment  of  weakness — or  rather  an  hour 
— but  it  happened!  I  was  sitting  near  her,  divided 
by  one;  and  presently  the  "one"  got  up.  I  had  a 
view  of  her  from  time  to  time  across  the  novel  I 
had  borrowed  from  the  library,  in  the  pages  of 
which  the  Adventurer  figured  again.  I  was  search- 
ing for  something  to  say  when  a  bold  old  beggar 
stopped  deliberately  in  front  of  her,  and,  presuming 
on  his  age,  robbed  me  of  my  opportunity.  I  con- 
sidered it  exceedingly  "pushing"  of  him,  though  I 
envied  him  the  coup.  I  caught  fragments  of  a  tale 
about  himself,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  India — 
especially  himself;  but  he  failed  to  entertain  her,  I 
was  delighted  to  observe,  for  she  was  monosyllabic 
and  inaudible.  He  lounged  away  after  ten  minutes, 
and  our  eyes  met.  I  fancied  hers  had  a  half-amused 
protest  in  them.  As  well  as  I  could  manage  it,  my 
own  gaze  expressed  comprehension. 

"You  were  so  unkind,"  I  said,  diffidently,  "that 
I  am  frightened  to  risk  boring  you  myself!" 

That  was  the  way  it  began. 

She  laughed;  and  when  she  answered  me  her  voice 
had  that  timbre  of  the  unexpected  in  it  which  one 
always  feels  on  hearing  a  woman  one  has  admired 
speak  for  the  first  time. 

She  is  an  art  student,  going  to  Europe  to  study. 
The  insolent  opulence  does  not  claim  her,  I  imagine. 
She  alluded  to  the  pecuniary  prospects  of  the  career, 


A   WEAK   IMITATION  105 

and  complained  that  it  was  so  long  before  a  palette 
produced  a  purse.  I  owned  to  her  I  wrote — tried 
to  write,  hoped  to  write ;  said  the  pen  was  no  mightier 
than  the  brush.  What  a  bond  there  is  between  art- 
ists, particularly  when  one  of  the  pair  is  a  girl !  We 
talked  without  restraint  for  an  hour;  I  might  even 
say  "without  cessation."  She  mentioned  the  class 
she  is  joining;  she  called  it  the  "mstitootion."  Noth- 
ing is  perfect — the  peach  has  a  stone,  and  the  nice 
American  woman  declines  the  vowel  "u";  but  when 
she  is  nice,  probably  la  belle  Americaine  gets  as  near 
perfection  as  a  New  Yorker  chasing  the  dollars 
comes  to  perpetual  motion.  And  that  is  about  uas 
near  as  makes  no  difference."  She  has  the  geniality 
of  her  husband  and  brothers,  with  a  refinement  that 
is  her  own;  the  charm  of  her  sex  allied  to  the  spon- 
taneity of  her  nation.  Miss  Bret  is  eminently  com- 
panionable; under  other  circumstances  she  would 
represent  the  interest  of  my  trip.  Even  as  it  is, 
there  may  surely  be  moments?  I  can't  monopolise 
the  lord  from  breakfast-time  to  cheese-and-crackers ; 

there  is  no  reason  why  in  intervals Yes,  I  am 

compromising,  I  feel  it !  Banish  the  sentiment !  The 
remainder  of  the  day  shall  be  devoted  to  relentless 
investigation  for  the  personage  who  is  to  slap  me 
on  the  shoulder,  and  say,  "My  boy,  a  sinecure,  five 
hundred  a  year!  Take  it,  and  woo  Melpomene  in 
peace  I" 


106  THIS   STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

Saturday. 

Can  only  conclude  he  is  suffering  in  his  state-room. 
How  plebeian!  In  the  meanwhile  why  not  Miss 
Bret  as  well  as  another?  Saving  the  "stockbroker" 
I  am  not  particularly  chummy  with  anybody  else,  and 
I  distinctly  prefer  the  lady.  Throgmorton  Street  is 
getting  unnecessarily  attached  to  me.  That  is  the 
worst  of  a  passenger  who  doesn't  thaw  to  the  multi- 
tude; when  he  does  take  a  liking,  he  is  apt  to  be 
importunate.  He  is  all  the  time  hanging  on  to  me 
when  I  want  to  drift  Miss  Bret-ward. 

They  are  getting  up  a  concert  for  Monday  night; 
Miss  Bret  is  to  sing.  Been  practising  her  accom- 
paniments with  her,  and  then  strolled  with  her  on 
deck,  and  then  took  her  down  again  to  look  for  tea. 
Asked  the  steward  if  any  was  "going."  She  thought 
it  funny;  seems  they  don't  say  that  in  America.  She 
declared  it  would  be  better  if  I  asked  if  any  was 
"coming."  So  it  would,  but  it  never  struck  me  be- 
fore. We  "refreshed"  at  a  table  tete-a-tete,  and 
were  witty  about  the  other  people  in  the  saloon.  She 
had  a  box  of  sweets,  and  offered  me  some — called 
them  "candies,"  of  course.  Am  not  sure  the  Ameri- 
can language  hasn't  a  certain  piquancy.  "Candies?" 
It  sounds  pretty,  I  think.  Could  not  avoid  noticing 
how  nice  she  looked  with  a  caramel  in  her  mouth — 
the  provoking  movement  of  the  lips,  don't  you  know. 
(By  Jove,  I  have  just  written  it!  And  she  has  been 
chaffing  me  about  that  British  "don't  you  know"  like 


A   WEAK   IMITATION  107 

anything!)  Suppose  there  is  nothing  intrinsically 
beautiful  in  sucking  a  caramel,  but  some  women  are 
adorable  whatever  they  do. 

Very  bad  taste,  the  rowdyness  of  the  actress-group. 
We  went  to  "do  the  mile"  before  dinner,  and  I  dis- 
liked passing  it  very  much.  That  kind  of  thing 
seems  to  me  disrespectful  to  the  other  ladies  on 
board.  I  suggested  to  Miss  Bret  that  we  should 
limit  ourselves  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  boat. 

I  had  helped  her  on  with  her  jacket,  and  found 
her  the  pin  belonging  to  the  sailor-hat.  What  a  sense 
of  intimacy  there  is  in  helping  a  laughing  woman 
to  put  on  her  "things !"  What  a  curb  one  has  to 
keep  on  oneself  not  to  say  too  much ! 

Don't  think  I  shall  turn  in  yet.  It's  a  heavenly 
night:  go  up  and  smoke,  and  look  at  the  stars! 

Sunday. 

Great  Scot!  the  "stockbroker"  is  the  lord!  Was 
there  ever  such  good  fortune !  Verily  hath  the 
Adventurer  wisdom,  and  I,  his  disciple,  am  in  luck. 
I  learnt  it  from  her  after  Service;  she  had  thought 
I  knew,  and  alluded  to  the  fact  quite  casually.  As- 
tonishing thing  that  before  a  woman  has  been  abroad 
twelve  hours  she  knows  everything  about  everyone 
— from  the  domestic  relations  of  the  first  officer  to 
the  history  of  an  improvident  person  with  thirteen 
children  in  the  steerage. 

Have  not  had  any  conversation  with  him  since  I 


108  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

made  the  discovery,  because  I  could  not  leave  Miss 
Bret  abruptly,  but  I  design  the  afternoon  for  him  in 
its  entirety. 

Hope  I  am  not  beginning  to  take  too  lively  an 
interest  in  Miss  Bret.  Must  confess  to  a  feeling  of 
restlessness  which  I  am  aware  is  premonitory  of  a 
cropper.  Think,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be  as  well 
to  give  her  a  wider  berth  during  the  remainder  of 
the  voyage.  To  think  is  to  do :  wider  berth  resolved ! 

Conversation  with  the  lord  as  determined;  we 
sauntered  about  together  some  time.  Not  the  entire 
afternoon — indeed  it  was  only  for  twenty  minutes 
— but  after  being  with  Miss  Bret  so  much  I  felt  it 
would  look  rude  to  neglect  her  utterly.  It  is  obvious 
one  must  use  tact  in  affairs  like  this,  and  edge  away 
by  degrees. 

A  migration  to  port  was  taking  place  when  I 
joined  her;  it  was  warmer  that  side.  I  moved  her 
chair  round  for  her,  and  placed  it  behind  a  boat, 
out  of  the  way  of  the  promenaders.  Stayed  with 
her  rather  longer  than  I  intended;  we  had  tea  on 
deck.  When  the  bugle  sounded  for  dinner  I  carried 
her  rug  down  to  the  door  of  her  state-room.  Our 
hands  touched  as  I  gave  it  to  her;  fancied  hers  wasn't 
withdrawn  as  quickly  as  it  might  have  been.  Know 
mine  wasn't!  Am  convinced  my  resolution  was  well 
taken ;  the  less  I  see  of  her  in  future  the  better.  Will 
have  just  one  turn  in  the  moonlight  with  her  this 


A   WEAK   IMITATION 

evening,  and  to-morrow  limit  myself  to  a  few  passing 
words. 

Monday. 

Had  forgotten  to-day  was  fixed  for  the  concert; 
it  has,  of  course,  been  impossible  to  avoid  her.  We 
had  to  have  a  last  rehearsal,  and  there  were  several 
things  to  be  discussed.  Most  prejudicial  to  my 
chances,  all  this,  upon  my  soul! — have  scarcely  said 
a  word  to  my  intended  benefactor  except  "Good 
morning. 

Don't  go  in  for  gushing  about  sunsets,  as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  but  the  one  this  afternoon  was  really  glo- 
rious. We  considered  it  the  loveliest  we  had  seen; 
we  had  been  walking,  and  paused  to  look  at  it.  The 
sea  was  like  at  lake,  and  everything  was  purple  and 
orange  in  turn.  Couldn't  help  reminding  her  we 
should  not  watch  many  more  together,  and  she  said 
"no"  very  thoughtfully;  and  there  was  silence.  I 
asked  if  she  would  be  sorry  when  we  landed,  and 
she  answered  "for  some  things  she  thought  she 
should."  I  said  women  often  fancied  they  regretted 
it  very  much  when  a  voyage  ended,  but  twenty-four 
hours  on  shore  was  sufficient  to  blot  the  remem- 
brance out.  She  said  she  had  no  doubt  that  was  so. 
The  silence  was  longer  this  time. 

She  found  she  was  growing  chilly  a  moment  later, 
and  decided  she  would  go  below.  It  was  simply 
balmy,  so  I  bowed  a  dignified  assent,  and  refrained 
from  expostulating.  Suppose  it  was  silly  to  have 


IIO  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

said  that  about  women  forgetting,  but,  after  all,  if 
she  is  offended  it  simplifies  my  position  with  regard 
to  her.  Didn't  sit  beside  her  at  the  concert,  which 
was  as  slow  an  affair  as  I  ever  endured.  She  thanked 
me  rather  coldly  at  the  conclusion  of  her  song,  and 
I  said  "It  was  a  privilege !"  with  formal  politeness. 
Ghastly  dull  thing,  a  passage,  anyhow;  wish  to  good- 
ness it  was  over ! 

Tuesday. 

Not  spoken  six  words  to  her  all  day !  Not  spoken 
to  anyone;  got  nothing  to  say.  Smoked  an  ounce 
of  tobacco,  and  am  going  to  turn  in. 

Wednesday. 

She  has  been  lodged  unapproachably  between  two 
old  dowagers  since  breakfast  A  deliberate  plan  to 
repulse  me!  And  to  judge  by  her  expression  one 
would  imagine  it  was  her  daily  custom  to  sit  there. 

Great  mind  to  stop  and  have  it  out  with  her  in 
front  of  the  whole  row.  Did  hesitate  when  I  lifted 
my  cap,  but  she  only  inclined  her  head  with  a  smile, 
and  went  on  with  her  book.  Perhaps  one  of  the  old 
crones  has  moved — go  up  and  see !  .  .  . 

Not  moved!  Both  in  a  state  of  fixity  suggestive 
of  a  ninety-nine  years'  lease.  Miss  Nellie  Bret 
reading  as  placidly  as  ever.  Hope  she  didn't  see  me 
lounge  round. 

Couldn't  address  her  when  she  went  to  luncheon. 
I  meant  to — tried  to,  but  I  bungled,  and  she  figura- 


A    WEAK    IMITATION  III 

tively  walked  over  me.  Afterwards  I  saw  her  en- 
sconced in  that  detestable  place  again,  with  an  air 
of  being  settled  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  And 
we  are  to  be  landed  early  to-morrow !  This  is  simply 
infernal.  .  .  . 

I  was  scribbling  at  one  of  the  double  desks  in 
the  writing-room,  and,  as  I  made  a  blot,  I  looked  in 
her  face !  She  had  been  writing  a  letter  on  the  other 
side.  We  lifted  our  heads  at  the  same  moment,  and 
our  eyes  met  through  the  scallop  in  the  top  of  the 
partition. 

It  was  my  chance  at  last,  and  I  threw  it  away! 
Don't  know  what  demon  possessed  me.  I  said,  "I'm 
afraid  I'm  disturbing  you,"  and  moved  to  another 
chair.  Think  I  must  have  been  crazed!  She  will 
never  forgive  me,  never;  and  in  twenty-four  hours 
we  shall  be  flying  across  England  in  opposite  direc- 
tions. 

The  coast  of  Cork  is  getting  clearer  every  minute. 
Everybody  on  deck,  staring  and  chattering.  The 
idiot  who  fancies  his  French  accent  has  lent  her  his 
field-glasses,  and  she  is  flirting  with  him  outrage- 
ously. Will  she  ever  be  alone? — I  only  live  to 
apologise  to  her ! 

Couldn't  see  my  dinner  for  watching  her  across 
the  saloon.  She  left  the  table  early,  and  I  bolted 
up  after  her  in  the  middle  of  an  entree.  Cannoned 
against  the  lord  in  the  companion-way  just  as  I  was 
reaching  her.  He  caught  me  by  the  arm  and  began 


112  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

to  talk.  It  was  maddening!  Nellie  was  leaning 
over  the  taffrail;  the  air  had  freshened,  and  the  lace 
thing  round  her  neck  was  fluttering  in  the  breeze. 
I  flung  his  hand  off,  and  left  him  affronted — 

She  is  an  angel  of  tenderness  and  patience !    Must 
try  to  find  a  ring  in  pearls  or  pink  coral  for  a  fiver. 


THE  LIFE  THEY  SAID  SHE  RUINED 

HAVE  you  ever  known  moments  in  which  you  have 
yearned,  with  an  intensity  that  was  almost  pain,  for 
an  unmet  woman's  love?  Moments  when  mother, 
brother,  friend — all  have  been  insufficient  to  ease 
the  restless  aching  of  your  heart,  which  cried  in  its 
sudden  loneliness*  for  sympathy  and  consolation? 
When,  like  a  far-off,  unattainable  star,  through  the 
gloom  of  your  unuttered  thoughts,  there  still  gleamed 
that  ideal  of  a  visionary  being  with  a  gentle  voice 
and  pitying  eyes,  who  should  comprehend,  and 
soothe,  and  whisper  "hope" — when  in  your  solitude 
of  mind  and  soul  it  seemed  Heaven  could  bestow 
no  sweeter  blessing  than  a  confidante  like  this?  No; 
you  have  known  no  such  folly?  You  have  never, 
in  fancy,  talked  with  her,  and  listened  to  tender 
words  which  have  no  existence  but  in  the  secret  day- 
dreams of  your  own  imagination?  You  have  never, 
in  a  great  gust  of  pictured  gladness,  defined  your 
longings  at  this  woman's  feet?  My  friend,  you  are 
a  happy  man;  or,  you  are  an  animal! 

My  name  is  Christian  Arbroath,  and  from  the 
peace  of  this,  my  new-found  home,  where  the  moun- 
tains round  us  rise  into  an  azure  sky,  and  existence 
passes  so  tranquilly  that  the  outside  world  is  nothing 


114  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

but  a  feverish  memory,  I  send  forth  the  story  of  my 
life — a  life  they  would  tell  you  I  have  "thrown 
away."  Yet  it  is  less  of  myself  I  would  speak  therein 
than  of  Her;  let  it  be  with  Her  my  narrative  com- 
mences, far  from  the  present  place,  one  long-gone 
summer's  day. 

She  knows  that  she  is  dying;  she  knows  that  she 
will  die  unmourned,  unmissed.  The  consciousness 
is  bitterer  than  the  fiercest  pangs  of  the  hunger  she 
has  endured  till  it  faded  in  the  numbness  of  exhaus- 
tion, more  terrible  than  her  fears  of  the  eternity 
towards  which  she  is  slowly  drifting  out.  It  is  the 
Nemesis  of  her  guilt  that  there  will  be  no  one  to 
weep  for  her,  no  one  to  care;  the  parched  lips  quiver 
at  her  loneliness,  and  her  eyes  moisten.  To  the 
fallen  woman  dying  on  a  wayside  seat  it  seems  that 
heaven  nor  hell  could  devise  a  ghastlier  satire  on 
the  price  at  which  she  has  purchased  love  in  life  than 
this  utter  isolation  in  her  hour  of  death. 

Her  dress  is  of  silk;  once  considered  too  rich  for 
outdoor  wear,  to-day  white  with  dust  that  lurks  be- 
tween its  greasy  folds,  and  clings  in  patches  to  its 
ragged  hem;  there  is  dust  upon  her  hair,  dust  upon 
the  broken  boots  half-hanging  from  her  blistered 
feet;  and,  trickling  down  one  wounded  heel  the  roads 
have  cut,  comes  a  little  stream  of  blood  to  mingle 
with  the  dust  upon  the  ground. 

It  is  Sabbath  morning:  the  hedges  are  gay  with 


THE   LIFE   THEY   SAID   SHE   RUINED  115 

the  bloom  of  wild  flowers  and  the  twitter  of  birds; 
she  feels  herself  more  loathsome  here  in  the  hush 
of  the  suburb  than  in  the  London  beyond;  the  im- 
mensity of  sky  frightens  her;  Respectability  shrinks 
from  her  appalled;  the  church-bells  cry  to  her  of 
an  outraged  God. 

"Charity!" 

Degraded,  and  unpitied,  she  stands  in  the  path 
of  Religion,  and  craves  the  means  to  live  and  to 
atone. 

"Charity!" 

The  people  pass  her  by  with  decorous,  averted 
gaze,  and  hymn-books  in  their  hands. 

"Charity!" 

She  sinks  back  upon  the  bench;  the  bells  have 
ceased,  and  through  the  open  door  the  voluntary 
peals  out  upon  her  ears. 

Hazily,  dreamily,  the  half-forgotten  music  recalls 
another  scene.  In  fancy,  the  scent  of  lavender  is 
blown  again  across  her  nostrils;  in  memory  she  hears 
the  lowing  of  the  cattle  driven  homeward  in  the 
eventide.  She  sees  a  girl  standing  at  a  cottage  porch, 
listening  to  the  clutter  of  the  chickens,  and  the  rattle 
of  the  tea-things  in  the  tiny  room  within.  The  girl 
is  innocent  and  pure,  and  the  woman  shudders  where 
she  lies,  for  two  years  have  rolled  away  as  the  chords 
swell  softly  on  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  air,  and 
it  is  the  ghost  of  her  former  self,  this  girl  she  sees. 

It  is  she,  who  has  for  man  to-day  nothing  but 


Il6  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

scorn  and  hatred,  who  is  roaming  through  the  mead- 
ows by  a  stranger's  side,  thinking  him  honest,  be- 
lieving him  true;  she,  to  whom  "man"  is  now  a  syno- 
nym for  all  that  is  base  and  vile,  who  is  blushing 
under  her  mother's  gaze  at  this  new-found  wealth 
of  love,  and  who,  Heaven  help  her!  is  presently 
sobbing  out  a  prayer  for  strength  in  the  wakeful 
night,  alone. 

The  organ  is  silent;  the  minister  is  reading;  and 
one  more  wraith  of  her  youth  floats  back  to  mock 
her  from  a  buried  past. 

She  sees  two  figures  standing  together  in  a  coun- 
try lane,  under  the  harvest-moon;  their  shadows 
blend  in  the  uncertain  light,  and  the  girl's  face  is 
hidden  by  her  hands.  He  has  pleaded  long  and 
passionately,  with  eager  words  and  tender  tones.  His 
wife  in  all  but  name  for  a  little  while,  and  then  his 
own  as  fast  as  church  and  ring  can  bind  them ! 

He  will  marry  her,  he  swears  it !  Will  she  refuse 
her  trust  to  him  who  has  given  her  his  heart? 

The  same  banality !  The  tale  that  drags  its  sequel 
through  the  gaslit  streets,  or  writes  "Finis"  on  the 
mound  above  a  nameless  grave. 

That  is  what  she  sees  while  life  is  ebbing  from 
her,  and  I,  who  pen  these  lines,  in  looking  back, 
thank  God's  full  mercy  I  was  in  time  to  save  her. 

Was  it  the  very  strangeness  of  that  meeting  which 
lent  her  in  my  sight  a  charm?  Was  it  because  I 
found  her  dying  almost  at  our  gates — my  mother's 


THE    LIFE    THEY    SAID    SHE    RUINED  I  17 

gates  and  mine — that  from  the  first  her  presence  in 
the  house  to  which  I  bore  her,  scarcely  conscious, 
filled  a  void  I  had  not  dared  to  hint?  Who  knows? 
There  is  a  destiny  in  these  things,  perhaps,  so  surely 
do  some  rencontres  seem  pre-arranged  by  Fate. 

Do  you  remember  the  commencement  of  what  has 
been  called  the  divinest  spirit-love  that  Earth  has 
seen :  when  Lamartine,  then  the  young  poet  who  had 
just  entranced  the  world  with  his  "Meditations,"  was 
journeying  from  Rome  to  Florence,  and  paused  to 
visit  the  cascades  of  Terni?  Abstractedly  ascending 
the  parapet  formed  by  the  rocks,  he  found,  on  gain- 
ing the  height,  a  girl,  ignorant  of  his  approach,  re- 
clining against  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  The  breeze 
played  with  her  long  golden  curls,  tears  glistened  on 
her  lashes,  her  blue  eyes  were  fixed  in  melancholy 
contemplation  upon  the  rushing  waters  at  her  feet.  It 
was  Delphine  Gay,  the  improvisatrice  of  France. 

I  was  no  poet,  I  was  a  doctor;  and  in  Hester 
Aubrey  I  found  no  woman  whose  thoughts  were 
familiar  to  me  through  the  medium  of  books;  but 
in  those  weeks  during  which  she  tarried  with  us, 
while  we  nursed  her  back  to  cheerfulness  and  health, 
and  her  gratitude  gave  place  to  interest,  as  it  ap- 
peared to  me,  I  experienced  a  new-born  happiness, 
a  supreme  contentment,  a  sense  of  homeliness  within 
the  quaint  old  rooms  which  had  never  been  so  strong 
to  me  before — a  homeliness  which,  in  the  inexplicable 
contradictions  of  nature,  a  stranger  had  been  the 


Il8  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

one  to  bring.  My  mother  loved  her  well,  I  know. 
Returning  from  my  daily  rounds,  I  always  came 
upon  them  sewing  or  reading  in  each  other's  com- 
pany, and,  by-and-by,  I  noticed  that  Hester's  face 
would  brighten  at  my  coming,  and  her  gray,  sweet- 
serious  eyes  grow  pensive  when  I  left.  Then,  when 
the  earliest  roses  bloomed  again  in  the  pale  cheeks, 
she  would  have  said  "Good-bye,"  and  gone  out  into 
the  world  once  more,  but  my  mother  pressed  her 
to  remain  yet  a  little  longer,  for  we  knew  that  Hester 
was  without  a  friend. 

We  did  not  know  the  whole  truth,  however.  Was 
it  wonderful  that  she  shrank  from  acknowledging 
her  shame  in  the  simple  household  which  bounded 
all  her  chances  of  redemption?  Can  I  marvel  that 
the  deserted  mistress  taught  us  to  regard  her  as  a 
widow — and  it  was  as  "Mrs.  Aubrey"  that  I  loved 
her  so.  "Loved  her,"  yes!  In  the  old  Eastern 
fancy  I  had  met  my  "other-half" — my  dearer  and 
my  better  self.  I  discovered  I  could  converse  with 
Hester  more  freely  than  I  had  ever  spoken  to  living 
soul  before;  I  found  affinities  too  subtle  to  be  ex- 
plained. In  the  afternoons,  when  my  mother  slept, 
she  and  I  would  sit  together  under  the  trees  on 
the  lawn,  sometimes  in  reverie,  more  often  talking 
so  earnestly  that  twilight  fell  upon  us  both  as  a  sur- 
prise. And  once,  with  her  hand  retained  in  mine, 
while  the  sinking  sun  touched  her  hair  redly,  I  asked 
her,  and  she  promised,  to  become  my  wife. 


THE    LIFE    THEY    SAID    SHE    RUINED  119 

It  was  at  this  period  that  my  mother  became  ill; 
I  summoned  the  aid  of  one  of  my  most  eminent 
colleagues.  Hester  and  I  waited  upon  her  day  and 
night.  If  devotion  could  have  saved  her  life,  Hester 
would  have  saved  it  as  assuredly  as  I.  Skill  and 
affection  alike  were  powerless;  my  mother  died. 

The  time  which  followed  was  very  sad  to  me. 
In  deference  to  the  prejudices  of  the  world,  it  was 
conceded  that  I  was  incapable  of  protecting  the  girl 
I  was  going  to  marry;  that  my  roof  was  no  longer 
a  fitting  shelter  for  the  woman  whose  honour  it 
would,  in  a  few  months,  be  my  sole  prerogative  to 
guard.  Hester  Aubrey  was  adrift  once  more,  and 
I  was  utterly  alone. 

She  herself  suggested  her  occupation,  and  I,  in 
my  profession,  was  able  the  more  easily  to  effect 
her  wish. 

As  a  sick-nurse  (I  am  recording  her  own  experi- 
ences now)  she  felt  she  was  in  some  measure  expi- 
ating the  guilt  of  her  unacknowledged  past;  in  the 
exercise  of  her  fresh  duties  she  trusted  to  lose  sight 
of  the  sin  of  its  concealment. 

All  the  sophistry  that  springs  from  wretchedness 
was  battling  with  her  inborn  instincts  of  holiness 
and  truth.  She  knew  she  was  beloved,  less  with  the 
senses  than  the  soul;  she  knew  that  the  marriage 
to  which  she  had  consented  would  be  a  prelude  to 
the  finest  intercourse  in  nature,  the  companionship 
of  two  kindred  minds;  she  felt  that  in  this  future 


120  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

which  she  held  within  her  grasp  she  could  give  hap- 
piness and  find  it.  Why  should  she  falter,  and  blight, 
with  the  confession  of  her  past,  her  own  prospects 
and  her  lover's  peace? 

Struggle  as  she  would,  they  forced  themselves 
upon  her,  these  meditations,  In  the  pauses  of  her 
sad  vocation.  Once,  watching  the  young  mother 
who  was  her  charge,  as  she  lay  between  the  soft 
silk  curtains  of  the  bed,  she  compared  the  lot  of 
her  wealthy  patient  with  her  own.  The  child-wife's 
head,  with  its  wealth  of  golden  hair,  lay  back  among 
the  lace-trimmed  pillows ;  her  eyes,  which  had  looked 
last  in  feeble  ecstasy  upon  her  new-born  son,  were 
closed.  She  dreamt,  to  judge  by  the  smile  that 
hovered  in  the  faint  rose-light  of  the  lamp  upon 
her  lips — dreamt,  perhaps,  of  the  baby  grown  to 
manhood,  impervious  to  the  charms  of  other  women, 
and  never  so  pleased  as  by  his  mother's  side.  And 
the  nurse,  contemplating  her  through  the  mist  of 
unshed  tears,  envied  her  wildly  for  the  destiny  that 
gave  her  portion,  home,  and  child,  without  taking 
from  her  one  iota  of  her  fame ;  loathed  herself  for 
the  sudden  bitterness  of  spirit  the  while,  and,  with 
a  low  sob  of  misery,  hurried  from  the  room. 

When  she  entered  it  next,  a  man  was  sitting  by 
the  bedside,  opposite  her  chair;  she  knew  it  must  be 
the  husband  and  father,  who  was  her  employer.  He 
lifted  his  eyes,  full  of  a  proud  delight,  and  their 
gaze  met. 


THE    LIFE    THEY    SAID    SHE    RUINED  121 

"Hester!" 

"Frank!    O  God!" 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  across  his  sleep- 
ing wife — the  woman  who  was  struggling  to  regain 
the  footing  she  had  lost,  and  the  man  by  whom  her 
fall  was  caused. 

"Hester!"  he  repeated,  under  his  breath,  "why 
have  you  come  here?" 

"I  am  her  nurse,"  she  answered,  slowly;  "I  did 
not  know !"  and  then  both  were  silent. 

Between  them — an  embodiment  of  all  that  sep- 
arated the  present  from  the  past — the  girl  he  had 
married  stirred  slightly  under  the  coverlet. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said  at  length;  "let 
us  go  down." 

They  passed  together  from  the  sick-chamber  to 
the  floor  below;  and  she,  in  viewing  the  luxury  of 
his  surroundings,  remembered  where  and  how  she 
had  seen  him  last.  The  dismal  lodging  in  a  street 
off  the  Strand;  her  desperate  supplication  to  him  to 
keep  his  word,  and  marry  her;  the  cowardly  fare- 
well; her  own  despair;  the  recollections  of  the  ensu- 
ing year,  when,  alone  in  the  mighty  city,  she  had 
toiled  till  she  could  no  longer  see  to  stitch;  her  ill- 
ness among  strangers;  the  news  that  her  mother  was 
dead;  the  unpaid  bill;  the  insults  and  the  want — all 
found  expression  in  one  curt  phrase : 

"What  have  you  to  say?" 

Looking  at  her,  he,  too,  was  thinking  of  that 


122  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

last  interview,  and,  despite  his  agitation,  marvelled 
at  the  change. 

"Hester,  will  you  ever  forgive  me?  You  don't 
know  how  my  action  was  forced  on  me  against  my 
will.  Believe  me,  I  was  penniless,  dependent  on  my 
father  from  the  beginning.  To  have  done  what — 
what  I  had  promised  you  to  do  would  have  meant 
beggary  and  starvation  for  us  both!" 

"So  you  left  me  to  starve  alone !" 

"I  sought  you  incessantly,  but  it  was  all  useless. 
From  the  moment  my  position  changed,  and  I  be- 
came my  own  master,  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of 
my  heart  to  make  you  such  reparation  as  was  pos- 
sible. You  had  gone— disappeared ;  I  could  not  trace 
you." 

"Reparation!"  she  echoed.  "What  reparation? 
Was  it  to  make  me  your  wife  you  sought  me — was 
it  to  keep  your  oath?  You  know  that  it  was  not; 
you  know,  as  I  know  now,  that  from  the  first,  you 
were  as  false  in  heart  as  the  name  you  bore.  You 
were  a  coward  then;  you  are  a  coward  now — for 
your  emotion's  fear,  and  not  repentance.  What  is 
to  prevent  me  going  to  that  child  you  have  married, 
and  telling  her  everything,  before  I  leave  your  house  ? 
Why  should  I  hesitate?  For  any  compassion  you 
have  shown  to  me — for  any  sentiment  towards  her? 
She  is  too  young  to  have  learned  the  world's  lesson 
yet — do  you  think  she  would  turn  to  you  for  con- 
solation? When  you  were  tired  of  me,  you  treated 


THE    LIFE    THEY    SAID    SHE    RUINED  123 

me  as  if  I  were  without  heart,  or  soul,  or  conscience. 
If  your  valuation  was  correct,  I  shall  go  to  your 
wife,  and  make  her  hate  you." 

"Hester,  have  mercy!    I  love  her!" 

The  words  broke  from  him  with  a  groan,  and  she 
pitied  him. 

"Ah,  don't  fear,  I  am  not  so  vile  as  that.  Try 
to  keep  her  faith  in  you  intact;  don't  kill  it  as  you 
killed  mine — it  is  all  I  beg  of  you.  Good-bye  !" 

"If  money " 

"Money!"  The  momentary  softness  faded  from 
her  voice,  and  she  faced  him  with  her  eyes  ablaze. 
"I  would  not  touch  your  money  if  I  were  without 
food  again,  if  I  were  dying  as  you  abandoned  me 
to  die;  I  once  asked  you  for  justice,  but  never  *or 
that!  I  am  going  to  marry  Christian  Arbroath; 
save  your  money  to  buy  toys  for  your  son !" 

"Dr.  Arbroath  is  going  to  marry  you?" 

She  shivered  under  the  amazement  of  his  glance, 
the  incredulity  of  his  tone.  It  was  the  supreme 
moment  of  her  life;  it  was  as  though  the  scorn  of 
the  whole  universe  had  been  hurled  at  her  by  him 
who  was  its  cause.  "Dr.  Arbroath  is  going  to  marry 
you  ?"  In  advance  she  heard  the  whispers  with  which 
the  tidings  would  be  received,  the  sneers  that  would 
be  levelled  at  the  man  who  had  braved  Society's 
opinions,  if  once  her  history  were  known.  She  saw 
his  helpless  shame,  and  heard  the  laughter  of  the 
world  echoing  in  his  ears.  She  saw  herself  as  the 


124  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

world  would  see  her,  and  him  disgraced  by  the 
very  love  she  bore  him. 

"Hester,  is  it  true?"  There  was  astonishment 
and  relief  in  the  question. 

"No;"  and  in  the  answer  each  word  came  slowly. 
"It  is  a  lie;  I  shall  never  be  Christian  Arbroath's 
wife!" 

Before  me,  as  I  write,  is  the  letter  in  which  she 
confessed  her  past,  and  bade  me  farewell  for  ever. 
Other  tears  have  blotted  it  than  those  which  fell  in 
the  hour  that  saw  it  penned. 

Before  me,  too,  is  the  form  which  crowned  my 
search,  she  to  whom  I  pleaded;  the  "other  half" 
whom  God  permitted  me  to  join — Hester,  my  wife. 

Sometimes,  more  rarely  now  as  years  roll  on,  a 
shadow,  like  a  passing  cloud  rendering  the  sun-light 
brighter,  dims  the  gladness  of  her  gaze;  and  then 
I  know  she  reproaches  herself  with  days  gone  by, 
and  the  faithful  heart  mourns  the  career  they  said 
she  ruined. 

Ruined!  Come  closer  to  me,  dearest;  put  your 
arms  about  my  neck;  let  me  look  into  your  eyes! 
Ruined,  do  they  say?  So  may  my  "ruin"  cling  to 
me  through  life;  so  may  I,  in  the  life  beyond,  where, 
judged  at  the  foot  of  Love,  all  halves  shall  meet  in 
the  Eternal  Unity,  have  thee  beside  me,  purifying 
amidst  purity — in  spirit  hold  thee,  endless  through- 
out all  time! 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE   LINCOLN 

A  YOUNG  Englishman  was  sitting  in  the  hall  of  the 
Palmer  House,  Chicago,  gnawing  his  moustache. 
He  was  a  journalist,  and  a  week  ago  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  the  editor  of  the  Chanticleer  had  of- 
fered to  consider  a  series  of  articles  from  his  pen 
if  he  could  hit  on  a  new  idea.  He  had  been  cud- 
gelling his  brains  ever  since.  "A  new  idea?"  He 
must  certainly  find  it — a  new  idea  1 

The  hot  hall  was  full,  as  usual,  with  the  hotel 
visitors  and  those  who,  like  Charlie  Bartlett,  were 
merely  availing  themselves  of  a  free  lounge.  All  the 
red  velvet  chairs  were  occupied,  and  the  big  black- 
and-white  squares  of  the  marble  floor,  dotted  with 
vase-shaped,  scarlet  spittoons,  rang  with  the  foot- 
steps of  the  people  streaming  to  and  fro  between 
the  doors.  He  watched  the  crowd  musingly.  He 
contemplated  a  pretty  woman  coming  down  the  stair- 
case, and  the  youth  at  the  cable-counter,  and  the 
boy  behind  the  bookstall.  None  of  these  objects 
of  his  scrutiny  assisted  his  meditations,  though  the 
pretty  woman  was  less  unprofitable  than  the  rest. 
Then  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face,  and 
bought  a  newspaper. 

125 


126  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

Scanning  the  sheets,  he  saw  an  advertisement  that 
suggested  possibilities,  and  he  read  it  through  again. 
It  ran  thus : 

INTEMPERANCE. — Refined  Home  for  a  limited  number  of 
patients  of  both  sexes  suffering  from  stimulants,  chloral,  or 
the  morphia-habit.  Judicious  supervision.  Luxury  and  recrea- 
tions. Highest  references. — For  prospectus  and  particulars, 
Dr.  Ferguson,  The  Retreat,  Lake  Lincoln. 

The  life  in  such  a  place  ought  to  furnish  very 
good  "copy"  indeed.  The  "patients  of  both  sexes" 
should  make  a  peculiarly  interesting  study. 

"I  think,"  said  Charlie  Bartlett  to  himself,  "I 
think  I  may  cry  'Eureka.'  The  thing  hasn't  been 
done,  and  I'll  drop  a  line  to  the  worthy  doctor  this 
afternoon." 

He  wrote  as  "a  victim  to  alcohol."  He  said  that 
he  wished  to  place  himself  under  a  firm,  restraining 
influence.  Fearing,  however,  that  if  he  were  at  all 
bored,  his  recovery  might  be  retarded,  he  would 
be  glad  to  hear  how  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  were 
at  present  residing  under  Dr.  Ferguson's  roof. 

The  reply,  which  came  by  return  of  post,  was 
satisfactory.  The  terms  were  very  little  higher  than 
he  had  expected  them  to  be,  and  the  establishment 
contained  twenty  patients,  of  whom  eight  were  ladies. 
Should  he  decide  to  avail  himself  of  the  care  and 
attention  offered,  Dr.  Ferguson  would  be  pleased 
to  learn  when  his  arrival  might  be  looked  for.  It 
was  a  plain,  straightforward  letter,  and  Charlie 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE    LINCOLN  127 

answered  it  immediately,  announcing  that  he  would 
present  himself  at  "The  Retreat"  on  the  next  day 
but  one.  He  was  now  in  quite  a  complacent  frame 
of  mind,  and  he  felt  that  the  editor  of  the  Chanticleer 
would  be  very  agreeably  surprised  by-and-by. 

Lake  Lincoln  was  a  little  over  an  hour's  run  from 
the  city,  and  when  the  train  deposited  Bartlett  at 
the  platform  he  found  that  "The  Retreat"  was  well 
known.  A  porter  pointed  it  out  to  him  across  a 
clump  of  trees.  The  investigator  arranged  that  his 
portmanteau  should  be  brought  across  without  delay, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  house,  whistling. 

Dr.  Ferguson  welcomed  him  cordially. 

"I  am  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Bartlett,"  he  said; 
"I  guess  you  will  not  regret  your  step,  sir.  I  guess, 
if  you  are  in  earnest,  sir,  we  shall  soon  have  over- 
come the  propensity  complained  of." 

"You  are  very  good,"  responded  Charlie,  with 
something  like  a  blush;  "I  hope  you  are  right.  I 
shall  do  my  best  to  assist  you,  I  promise." 

Certain  interrogatories  followed,  for  which  he  was 
partially  prepared.  Among  other  things,  he  was 
asked  how  long  he  had  been  a  victim  to  the  habit, 
and,  remembering  that  his  appearance  did  not  re- 
semble a  confirmed  drunkard's,  he  was  careful  to 
say  that  it  was  only  for  a  short  time.  He  passed  the 
examination,  he  told  himself  afterwards,  with  hon- 
ours. And  then  the  doctor  rang  for  the  coloured 
servant  to  show  him  to  the  bedroom  allotted  to  him, 


128  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

and  warned  him  that  he  must  not  feel  offended  at 
his  "baggage"  being  examined  when  it  was  delivered, 
in  order  that  it  might  be  seen  whether  any  spirits 
were  secreted  in  it 

"It's  like  the  Customs,"  he  said,  "that's  all.  One 
of  our  necessary  'customs' !" 

He  made  the  same  joke  to  everybody  in  the  first 
interview.  Some  patients  laughed,  and  some  smiled 
wryly.  Charlie  laughed,  and  the  doctor  was  pretty 
sure  that  nothing  was  being  smuggled  this  time. 

"I  am  allowed  to  smoke,  I  suppose?" 

"Why,  cert'nly,"  said  Dr.  Ferguson.  "You  are  at 
liberty  to  do  whatever  you  choose  here,  sir — all  but 
the  one  thing,  and  don't  you  forget  it  We  take  sup- 
per at  six,  Mr.  Bartlett,  and  afterwards  it  is  pleasant 
summer  evenings  in  the  grounds." 

Charlie  went  up  to  his  room,  and  made  himself 
comfortable  on  the  couch  with  a  pipe  and  a  novel. 
Presently  a  gong  sounded,  and  he  descended  with 
curiosity. 

It  might  have  been  a  "spa"  hotel,  he  decided, 
as  he  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  the  suggestion 
grew  stronger  as  the  meal  proceeded.  Everybody 
here  appeard  to  find  the  same  delight  in  dwelling  on 
his  symptoms.  A  man  next  him,  sipping  Apollinaris, 
turned  and  remarked,  "No  craving  to-day — this  is 
the  third  day  without  any  craving,  sir.  Wonderful !" 
A  woman  opposite  groaned  audibly,  and  shook  her 
head  at  her  neighbour  with  a  world  of  significance. 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE   LINCOLN  129 

"Low,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  "mighty  low!  How 
are  you,  dear?"  This  patient,  he  subsequently  learnt, 
was  suffering  from  the  deprivation  of  her  chloral. 

Gazing  about  him,  his  view  was  met  by  a  girl  who 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  than  five  and  twenty 
years  of  age.  Her  pale  face  was  extremely  inter- 
esting, and  her  beauty,  in  connection  with  her  youth 
and  the  situation,  made  her  a  pathetic  figure  to  be- 
hold. He  wondered  for  wrhat  particular  vice  she 
was  being  treated,  and  if  she  would  be  cured.  He 
hoped  he  would  be  introduced  to  her  later. 

The  hope  was  fulfilled.  They  were  made  known 
to  each  other  by  Dr.  Ferguson  in  the  garden — "Mr. 
Bartlett,  Miss  Vancouver."  She  smiled  graciously. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you're 
already  wishing  you  hadn't  come?" 

He  refrained  from  the  cheap  compliment,  and 
merely  answered  that  it  was  not  so. 

"Why  should  I  be?"  he  asked. 

"The  beginning  is  so  bad  for  most  of  us,"  she 
said.  "/  cried  the  whole  of  the  first  night.  But  I  am 
getting  better  now,  am  I  not,  doctor?" 

"You  are  being  a  very  good  girl,"  averred  the 
physician.  "We  shall  send  you  back  to  your  friends 
one  of  these  fine  days." 

The  lady  who  had  groaned  at  dinner  came  up  to 
him  with  some  complaint,  and  Bartlett  and  Miss 
Vancouver  moved  away  together. 


130  THIS   STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

"May  I,"  murmured  Charlie,  "if  it  isn't  indis- 
creet   But  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  ask." 

"What  am  I  here  for,  do  you  mean?"  she  said, 
turning  her  big  eyes  on  him  frankly.  "Oh,  my 
trouble  is  morphia — I'm  a  morphomaniac;  what's 
yours?" 

"Er — drink,"  he  said,  bashfully.  "But  I'm  not  a 
very  bad  case,  you  know;  I've  put  myself  under  re- 
straint early." 

"Oh!"  she  said.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm 
as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse.  "Don't  you  crave?" 
she  whispered.  "Aren't  you  burning  to  be  at  it? 
Tell  me  all." 

"I  should  enjoy  a  little  whisky,  certainly,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "And  how  about  yourself?  You  are  getting 
over  the — er — weakness,  you  say?" 

"I  said,"  she  replied,  with  a  shrug;  "that  was  to 
him.  Don't  you  believe  it!  I'm  hopeless,  that's 
what  /  am;  nothing  will  ever  cure  me.  He  thinks 
I  am  getting  on,  and  I'm  quiet,  and  I  deceive  him; 
but  when  I'm  out " 

"You  will  do  it  again?" 

"Oh,"  she  gasped,  "I'd  love  it!  I'd  love  it  this 
minute — now!  Haven't  you  ever  tried  it?  It's 
beautiful!  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  Talk  about 
something  else,  quick!  Tell  me  the  fascination  of 
whisky;  I  can't  understand  that." 

So  he  explained  to  her,  as  well  as  he  could,  being 
a  temperate  young  man,  the  fascination  of  getting 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE    LINCOLN  131 

intoxicated  on  whisky,  and  she  listened  with  avidity. 
Then  their  conversation  drifted  into  pleasanter  chan- 
nels, and  he  discovered  that,  her  passion  apart,  she 
was  a  singularly  bright  and  intellectual  companion. 
They  spoke  of  Howells'  books,  of  the  latest  play 
at  Hooley's  Theatre — which  she  had  seen,  only  hav- 
ing been  in  "The  Retreat"  a  month.  They  discussed 
a  variety  of  topics,  from  literature  to  lawn  tennis, 
and  said  "Good  night"  at  last,  with  the  arrangement 
that  they  should  make  up  a  match  on  the  following 
afternoon,  a  couple  of  decent  courts  being  among  the 
doctor's  "recreations." 

In  one  way  and  another,  Bartlett  found  himself  in 
Miss  Vancouver's  society  a  great  deal  during  the 
next  few  days.  Primarily,  he  thought  it  was  because 
she  was  able  to  supply  him  with  so  much  material 
for  the  "series" — she  was  acquainted  with  the  details 
of  every  inmate's  case — but  by  degrees  he  was  forced 
to  own  that  it  was  because  he  liked  her.  Strange  as 
it  may  sound — as  it  did  sound  to  Bartlett — she 
attracted  him,  no  longer  as  good  "copy,"  but  as  a 
girl. 

After  their  earliest  parley,  she  had  seldom  men- 
tioned her  temptations,  nor  did  she  often  question 
him  low  about  his  own,  and,  when  these  subjects 
were  tabooed,  he  frequently  forgot  that  she  was  a 
morphomaniac  altogether,  and  chatted  with  her  as 
gaily  as  if  they  were  both  visitors  at  the  Palmer 
House  or  the  Auditorium.  It  was  only  as  his  interest 


132,  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

in  her  deepened  that  the  painful  fact  constantly 
oppressed  him,  and  then  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  was  occupying  his  thoughts  much  more  than 
was  desirable,  and  he  determined  to  bring  his  inves- 
tigations to  a  close. 

He  told  her  one  morning  that  his  stay  was  ter- 
minating. 

"I  have  been  here  three  weeks,  and  I  have  not 
tasted  a  drop  of  whisky  the  whole  time,"  he  said. 
"If  I  can  do  without  it  for  three  weeks,  I  can  do 
without  it  always.  Miss  Vancouver,  I  am  cured." 

She  gazed  at  him  sadly. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said,  "but  I  never  yet  heard  of 
so  quick  a  cure.  Have  you  spoken  to  the  doctor?" 

"I  intend  to  do  so,"  replied  Charlie.  "Anyhow, 
I  have  not  been  placed  here  —  I  can  leave  whenever 
I  like." 

They  were  in  the  garden  as  usual;  Miss  Vancouver 
was  lying  in  a  hammock.  She  had  a  white  dress 
on,  and  her  hair  was  ruffled  by  the  cushion  and  the 
breeze.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look 
so  charming,  so  subversive  to  his  common  sense.  Her 
dark  eyes  were  regretful,  almost  tender. 


"How  —  how  can  I  advise  ?"  said  Miss  Vancouver. 
"You  must  do  what  you  think  best." 

"It  is  best  that  I  should  go,"  he  declared. 

He  stood  frowning  at  the  grass,  and,  more  than 
ever,  he  knew  that  it  was  true.  He  was  in  love 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE    LINCOLN  133 

with  her.  Revolting  fact!  Nothing  more  hideous 
could  well  have  happened  to  him.  In  love  with  this 
girl!  Yes,  indeed,  the  sooner  he  went,  the  better 
for  his  peace  of  mind. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  have  never  told  me  your 
name?"  he  said,  huskily.  "I  should  like  to  know 
your  Christian  name." 

"It's  Frankie." 

'  Trankie  Vancouver' — it's  curious;  somehow,  it 
suits  you.  I  shall  go  this  afternoon,  Miss  Frankie 
Vancouver.  Will  you  say  good-bye  to  me  now?" 

Was  it  imagination,  or  did  her  lips  tremble?  was 
the  white  face  whiter  at  his  words?  She  put  out 
her  hand,  and  he  took  it,  and  held  it  for  an  instant 
tightly. 

"Good-bye,"  she  murmured. 

"Good-bye,"  repeated  Charlie  Bartlett. 

Neither  spoke  advice  to  the  other,  though  each 
meant  it.  He  knew,  as  he  turned  away  across  the 
lawn,  that  she  understood  he  was  fond  of  her,  and 
she,  as  she  lay  watching  his  receding  figure,  knew 
that  she  cared  for  him.  He  thanked  the  doctor  for 
all  his  kindness,  and  announced  his  intention  of  de- 
parting forthwith.  But  he  did  not  see  Miss  Van- 
couver again;  she  was  unwell  at  luncheon,  and  kept 
her  room. 

And,  of  course,  it  was  one  of  those  things  that 
he  ought  to  have  ridiculed,  and  sneered  at,  and  for- 
gotten. Only  he  could  not.  It  remained  a  horrible 


134  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

consciousness  with  him  that  the  girl  he  loved  was 
shut  up  in  an  establishment  at  Lake  Lincoln  for 
treatment  for  the  morphia  vice,  and  he  used  to  have 
bad  dreams,  haunted  by  a  frightful  form  that  was 
Frankie  and  yet  not  Frankie — dreams  from  which 
he  woke  in  a  cold  sweat. 

Sometimes  the  picture  of  what  she  might  become 
forced  itself  between  him  and  his  work,  and  the  face 
of  Frankie  ten  years  hence  glared  up  at  him  from 
the  manuscript.  Then  he  shuddered,  and  left  his 
desk,  and  the  article  did  not  progress  very  rapidly 
the  rest  of  that  day. 

He  found  it  so  difficult  to  concentrate  his  attention 
on  what  he  was  doing  that  it  was  a  fortnight  before 
No.  i  of  the  series  was  finished.  After  that,  how- 
ever, he  fell  into  the  swing  of  the  thing,  and  went  on 
apace.  He  had  decided  to  submit  the  six  papers — 
he  meant  to  have  six — all  at  once,  and,  when  they 
were  done,  he  rubbed  his  hands.  They  represented 
an  editorial  compliment  and  a  very  substantial 
cheque,  he  calculated.  He  was  more  cheerful  than 
he  had  been  since  he  quitted  "The  Retreat." 

He  was  staying  in  a  boarding-house  in  Indiana 
Street,  and  he  was  inclined  to  be  careless  in  his  habits. 
What  was  his  dismay  the  following  morning,  on 
unfolding  his  copy  of  the  Chanticleer,  to  see  that 
he  had  been  forestalled.  He  stamped  and  he  swore. 
There  it  was,  with  terrific  headlines,  and  a  "leader" 
calling  attention  to  it,  besides — "The  Liquor  and 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE   LINCOLN  135 

The  Ladies !  Life  in  a  Dipsomaniac  Home.  By  our 
Special  Commissioner.  To  be  continued  Day-by-Day. 
Dainty  Dames  Demand  Drink  Desperately!  Start- 
ling Stories  of  Some  Sinners  in  Society." 

Startling  indeed!  Why,  what  was  this?  Ah,  it 
explained  the  strange  "coincidence" — the  matter  was 
almost  identical  vith  his  own!  "Curse  it!"  groaned 
Bartlett,  recovering  from  his  stupefaction;  "some- 
body has  got  at  my  stuff;  some  leaping  Yankee 
bounder  has  been  prying  about  my  room  when  I've 
been  out!  If  I  can  find  out  who  he  is,  I'll  murder 
the  thief!" 

He  caught  up  his  hat  and  cane,  and  jumped  on 
to  the  first  cable-car  that  passed  him.  The  editor 
of  the  Chanticleer  was  in,  and,  as  it  happened,  acces- 
sible. 

"I  want  to  know  who's  doing  your  'Dipsomaniac 
Home'  series?"  began  Charlie.  "I  suppose  it  isn't 
a  secret.  Who  is  he?" 

"Well,"  said  the  editor,  "I  guess  it  ain't  your 
affair,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  The  stuff  was 
sent  in  by  an  'outsider,'  and  I  thought  it  a  good  idea. 
What  do  you  ask  for,  anyhow?" 

"What  do  I  ask  for?"  echoed  Charlie,  excitedly; 
"look  here — and  here — and  here!"  He  showered 
his  manuscripts  on  the  table  as  he  spoke.  "You  told 
me  to  do  you  some  articles  on  a  new  subject.  I 
found  the  subject;  I  did  the  articles;  and  now  this 


136  THIS  STAGE  OF   FOOLS 

infernal  outsider  of  yours  has  robbed  me  of  my 
matter.  I  leave  my  desk  open,  and  he  has  been 
at  it." 

The  editor  observed,  parenthetically,  that  it  was 
"smart  business." 

"Is  it?"  said  Charlie.  "There  will  be  a  deal 
smarter  business  when  I  get  hold  of  him,  I  can  tell 
you !  I  have  suffered  enough  over  these  investiga- 
tions already,  without  having  my  information  stolen 
from  me  at  the  end." 

"Well,"  remarked  the  other,  "all  that  don't  con- 
cern me."  He  whistled  through  a  tube,  and  presently 
announced  that  the  "outsider"  was  Mr.  George  R. 
Wibrow,  and  the  address  given  was  a  street  on  the 
North  Side.  Charlie  drew  a  long  breath,  and  de- 
parted. 

It  was  an  awkward  road  to  find,  but  he  got  to  it 
at  last.  A  German  maidservant  replied  to  his  ring, 
and  he  inquired  if  Mr.  Wibrow  lived  there,  or  if 
he  only  called  for  letters.  As  he  was  ushered  into 
the  parlour,  he  concluded  that  the  gentleman  did 
live  there,  though  the  maidservant's  English  was  not 
the  most  intelligible. 

He  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  put  his  hat  on  the 
table,  and  felt  the  suppleness  of  the  cane.  Then 
the  door  opened,  and  admitted  Miss  Frankie  Van- 
couver I 

Both  started  violently;  both  uttered  the  same  mon- 
osyllable at  the  same  moment — 


THE   GIRL   AT   LAKE    LINCOLN  137 

"You?" 

"But — but,  how "  gasped  Charlie. 

"  'George  R.  Wibrow'  is  my  pen-name,"  she  ex- 
plained. ''I  am  a  journalist.  That  is  why  I  was  at 
'The  Retreat.'  I  only  shammed  the  morphia — I  had 
to  be  something  terrible,  or  I  couldn't  have  got  in." 
She  contemplated  him  gravely.  "I  hope  you  are 
keeping  sober?"  she  added. 

"Sober!"  he  cried;  "why,  Heavens  above!  /  am 
a  journalist;  /  shammed  the  whisky;  I,  too,  have 

written  a  series  of  papers,  and  that's  the  reason 

Oh,  my  dear,  dear  girl !  to  think  you  are  a  colleague, 
and  not  a  morphomaniac  at  all!  I  expected  to  find 
a  man,  and  had  come  to  thrash  him.  Will  you  let 
me  shake  your  dear  little  hand  again,  instead?" 

And  she  did  let  him,  and  he  kept  on  shaking  it; 
and  then,  somehow  or  other,  his  arm  was  round  her 
waist,  and  she  was  crying  on  his  shoulder,  and — and 
the  rest  was  banal. 


THE  GIRL  WITH   THE   GREEK   FACE 


FEW  social  duties  demand  more  patience  and  effront- 
ery than  the  examination  of  your  host's  album  in 
the  presence  of  its  owner.  Indeed,  as  a  general  rule, 
I  hold  it  safest  to  maintain  a  respectful  silence  until 
the  first  six  pages  have  been  leisurely  dismissed,  for 
experience  teaches  us  it  is  at  the  commencement  of 
these  appalling  books  that  the  collector  will  be  found 
to  have  assembled  en  masse  the  portraits  of  his  rela- 
tives and  loves. 

But  Arthur  Deane  was  my  best  friend.  And,  then, 
a  bachelor  at  least  confronts  you  with  fewer  pitfalls 
than  the  Benedict.  It  is  the  connections  by  marriage 
which  are  most  dangerous ;  the  unrecognised  sisters- 
in-law  over  whom  you  trip;  the  newly  acquired 
maiden  aunt,  who  lures  you  into  candour  and  confu- 
sion. When  Jonathan  is  single  surely  David  may 
deem  himself  secure,  premising  only,  as  a  prepara- 
tory safeguard,  that  he  has  a  bowing  acquaintance 
with  the  house  of  Saul?  Besides,  I  was  so  anxious 
to  learn  who  she  was  I 

I  asked  him. 

138 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GREEK    FACE  139 

The  entire  narrative  springs  from  my  inquiry. 

Judging  by  the  photograph,  she  might  have  been 
five  and  twenty  years  of  age.  The  lips  were  delicate 
to  sensitiveness;  the  chin,  contradicting  the  mouth, 
betokened  more  than  feminine  strength  of  will;  a 
profound  melancholy  could  be  read  within  the  eyes. 
Involuntarily  you  cried,  "What  a  perfect  face  I"  at 
the  second  glance  you  said,  "But  not  a  happy 


woman." 


In  addition  to  its  expression,  the  charm  of  the 
countenance  was  a  peculiar  one;  an  attraction  which, 
baffling  definition  from  the  uneducated  spectator, 
would  still  have  riveted  his  interest  by  its  singularity. 
Its  characteristics  were  intensely  Greek.  No  artifices 
of  the  toilet  had  been  employed  to  heighten  the 
effect;  she  might  even  have  been  unconscious  of  it; 
for,  as  every  figure-painter  becomes  insensibly  some- 
thing of  a  physiognomist,  I  felt  that  amongst  this 
girl's  failings  vanity  had  no  place;  it  was  too  small. 

To  convey,  however,  the  sensation  produced  upon 
me  by  the  discovery  of  the  likeness,  it  is  necessary 
to  make  a  momentary  retrogression  of  eighteen 
months,  and  explain  the  circumstances  under  which 
I  had  encountered  the  original. 

Imagine  the  interior  of  a  pawnbroker's  shop !  If 
you  cannot  imagine  it,  so  much  the  better  for  you; 
and  if,  being  cognizant  of  my  profession,  you  find  it 
disgusting  that  I  should  ever  have  been  reduced  to 
the  strait  of  pledging  my  watch  in  order  to  subsist 


140  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

in  this  mighty  nation,  which  Carlyle  described  as 
"thirty-eight  millions — mostly  fools !"  let  me  remind 
you  that  an  artist  is  dependent  on  the  wise  men.  Only 
a  fortnight  since,  my  paper  on  Art  students  came 
back,  "declined  with  thanks,"  and  the  following  week 
the  contents  bill  of  the  periodical  to  which  it  had 
been  submitted  was  "Do  Carroty  Men  make  Good 
Husbands?"  "Mostly  fools,"  and  that  editor  caters 
for  the  majority. 

Behold  me,  then,  on  an  afternoon  in  March,  1882, 
nervously  twirling  my  moustaches  in  one  of  these 
depots  of  impecuniosity,  not,  as  the  journalists  say, 
a  hundred  miles  distant  from  Leicester  Square,  when 
the  door  is  pushed  quietly  back  by  a  female  hand, 
and  a  customer  enters  who  requires  fifteen  shillings 
on  a  locket  and  chain ! 

I  need  a  brush  to  paint  the  creature,  not  a  pen! 
I  saw  a  goddess,  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers  pro- 
truding through  a  pair  of  mended  gloves — a  Venus 
in  a  shabby  bodice  and  a  shapeless  skirt! 

I  abandoned  myself  to  admiration.  With  my 
ticket  lying  unheeded  on  the  counter,  I  simply  sought 
some  shallow  pretext  for  remaining  near  her.  At 
length,  after  hearing  her  pronounce  the  name,  real 
or  assumed,  of  Miss  Alma  West,  I  withdrew,  fear- 
ful of  offending  her  by  my  scrutiny,  and  waited  in 
the  street  till  she  came  out. 

Here,  incensed  at  my  own  stupidity,  I  missed  her 
in  the  crowd;  and  then,  on  the  principle  of  Hogarth, 


THE   GIRL    WITH    THE    GREEK    FACE  14! 

who  used  to  divide  his  thumb-nail  by  pencil-lines 
into  four  spaces,  and  transfer  to  it  the  four  visages 
that  in  his  walks  abroad  impressed  him  most,  I,  on 
reaching  my  lodging,  had  attempted  a  dozen  sketches 
from  memory  of  those  features  which,  despite  my 
subsequent  attachment  to  the  neighbourhood  where 
I  met  her,  I  had  never  been  so  fortunate  as  to  view, 
or  to  have  recalled  to  me  again,  until  this  present 
occasion — datum,  the  nineteenth  day  of  August,  1883 
— when,  at  Lauriston  Vicarage,  with  his  album  held 
out  towards  him,  in  surprise,  I  exclaimed: 

"Good  heavens,  Arthur!  Who  is  this?"  and 
pointed  to  my  incognita's  vignette. 

"Which?"  rejoined  the  Rev.  Arthur  Deane,  in  a 
tone  of  abstraction,  from  the  window,  absorbed  in 
the  restoration  of  an  imprisoned  butterfly  to  the 
flower-beds  beyond;  "whom  do  you  mean?" 

"Whom — which !  The  girl  with  the  Greek  face, 
to  be  sure  I" 

I  had  his  attention  now;  he  started  as  if  he  had 
been  shot;  paused,  recovered  himself,  and  then  re- 
sponded with  a  counter-question,  and  a  curious  one : 

"Where  does  she  live?"  he  cried. 

:  'Where,'  my  dear  fellow  1  How  should  I  know  ? 
I  ask  you  who  she  is;  I  never  spoke  to  her  in  my 
life!" 

"I  fancied  you  might  tell  me,"  he  said,  painfully; 
"she  is  someone  I You  were  away  during  that 


142  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

summer.  Antwerp,  was  it  not?  Yes,  of  course;  you 
were  in  Antwerp." 

The  man's  struggle  for  composure  was  evident;  he 
had  grown  as  pale  as  death. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  remarked,  hastily;  "I  did 
not  mean  to  force  a  confidence — I  had  no  idea " 

"That's    it!"    he    interrupted,    with    excitement. 

"You  never  thought — nobody  thinks Over  and 

over  again  since  your  return  I  have  intended  to  tell 
you.  I  will  tell  you,  only  I  must  be  calm ;  I  will  write 
it  all  by-and-by !" 

"One  moment,  Arthur,"  I  replied,  by  this  time 
almost  as  disturbed  as  he;  "the  trap  is  at  the  gate; 
I  shall  just  manage  to  catch  my  train  to  town.  Write 
me  what  you  please,  withhold  what  you  please;  but 
before  I  go,  here  and  now,  who  is  she — what  is  she? 
Answer  me  that." 

If  I  had  inwardly  wronged  him  by  the  vaguest 
doubt,  I  was  the  more  unprepared  for  his  reply;  it 
came  in  two  words: 

"My  wife!" 

II 

[Communicated  by  the  Rev.  Arthur  Deane~\ 

THE  communication  I  am  about  to  make  to  you,  my 
dear  friend,  is  at  once  a  humiliation  and  a  relief. 
A  relief,  because  I  have  longed  for  your  consolation 
and  advice,  although  I  have  lacked  the  courage  to 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GREEK   FACE  143 

avow  my  trouble ;  a  humiliation,  since  I  must  say  to 
you:  the  man  you  esteem  is  unworthy  your  respect; 
the  history  of  the  pastor  of  Lauriston,  a  secret  of 
which  no  one  in  his  parish  dreams. 

I  have  owned  to  you  I  am  married;  it  is  a  truth 
that  has  for  three  years  been  locked  in  my  own  breast 
— a  fact  unknown  to  all.  Concealment  is  the  extent 
of  my  transgression,  but  such  a  concealment!  It 
makes  my  life  a  lie. 

From  my  youth  my  inclinations  pointed  strongly 
towards  the  Church;  on  the  other  hand,  my  parents 
would  have  preferred  me  to  study  for  the  Bar.  I 
have  always  entertained  for  my  parents  the  most 
sincere  affection,  and  would  have  gratified  their 
wishes  in  this  particular,  even  at  the  expense  of  my 
most  precious  hopes,  but  that  my  predilection  for 
Orders  was  so  marked,  they  decided  opposition 
would  be  misplaced,  and  tenderly  accorded  their 
sanction  to  my  plan. 

I  quitted  college  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  and 
after  a  short  delay  was  fortunate  in  being  appointed 
to  a  curacy  in  the  East  End.  Here  began  those  prac- 
tical labours  I  so  ardently  desired.  I  embraced  with 
delight  the  manifold  opportunities  for  occupation 
which  abound  nowhere  so  plentifully  as  in  a  poverty- 
ridden  district  such  as  this.  My  anticipations  were 
fulfilled  at  last.  At  the  end  of  five  years,  having 
gained  the  attention  of  my  bishop  by  my  sermons,  I 


144  THIS    STAGE    OF   FOOLS 

had  the  gratification  of  being  installed  as  incumbent 
of  a  densely  populated  parish. 

I  received  from  Carlsbad,  whither  my  father  had 
at  this  period  been  ordered  by  his  physician  for  a 
course  of  waters,  a  letter  containing  his  warmest  con- 
gratulations, and  a  postscript  brimming  with  mater- 
nal pride.  I  was  overjoyed. 

During  the  ensuing  summer,  however,  my  health 
gave  way  under  the  constant  strain  to  which,  despite 
all  warnings,  I  had  foolishly  subjected  it,  and  which 
now  compelled  a  temporary  cessation  from  work.  I 
thought  of  joining  my  parents  on  the  Continent,  but 
their  movements  were  uncertain,  and  the  journey  was 
too  long;  of  surprising  you  in  Antwerp,  but  aban- 
doned this  second  project  for  similar  reasons.  I 
determined  in  favour  of  the  English  coast,  ultimately 
deciding  upon  Worthing. 

One  of  the  keenest  pleasures  of  the  seaside  comes 
to  you  on  the  first  morning,  when  you  wake  to  hear 
the  rolling  of  the  waves.  You  gaze  from  the  win- 
dow already  invigorated;  you  descend  to  breakfast 
remembering  it  is  a  privilege  to  breathe. 

I  had  not  been  long  in  these  apartments  when  I 
discovered,  by  means  of  a  conversation  carried  on 
outside  my  sitting-room  door,  that  I  was  not  the  only 
invalid  established  there.  Conversation,  perhaps,  is 
scarcely  the  term.  I  should  rather  say  a  monologue, 
for  it  was  my  landlady  who  uttered  all  the  remarks 
that  reached  my  ears. 


THE   GIRL   WITH    THE   GREEK   FACE  145 

I  gathered  from  her  observations,  which  were 
pitched  in  a  somewhat  higher  key  than  good  breed- 
ing deems  essential,  that  a  mother  and  daughter 
lodged  above  me  on  the  third  floor,  and  the  elder 
woman,  being  unwell,  had  sent  a  petition  for  some 
tiny  delicacy,  which  Mrs.  Watson,  on  the  grounds 
of  an  outstanding  bill,  was  refusing  to  accord. 

Could  this  hard  voice  I  now  heard  belong  to  the 
person  who  presently  smirked  into  my  parlour,  and 
hoped  I  should  find  with  her  all  the  comforts  of  a 
home?  Oh,  the  power  of  prosperity! 

In  answer  to  my  interrogatories,  she  informed  me 
that  Mrs.  and  Miss  West  had  been  staying  there  a 
fortnight.  She  understood  (her  little  ringlets  shak- 
ing with  humility)  that  they  were  from  London,  and 
extremely  poor.  What  other  particulars  she  might 
have  afforded  me  I  know  not,  for  I  did  not  seek  to 
pry  into  their  private  affairs,  but  to  assist  without 
wounding  them,  and  I  nipped  her  discourse  in  the 
bud.  As  a  consequence  of  my  mediation,  the  jelly 
was  bought  and  conveyed  to  the  sufferer,  ostensibly 
by  Mrs.  Watson. 

Thus  my  intervention  continued  to  procure  for 
her  much  which  she  had  otherwise  been  denied,  the 
increased  stipend  accruing  from  my  rectorate  per- 
mitting my  more  frequent  indulgence  in  luxuries  like 
this.  Nevertheless,  until  the  sixth  day  I  had  not  so 
much  as  seen  either  of  the  ladies  whom  I  served. 

It  was  then  that  the  imposition  was  detected,  and 


146  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

I  was  honoured  with  a  visit  from  the  miserable  girl 
who  eventually  became  my  wife. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you,  my  friend,  how  beautiful 
she  was,  with  a  beauty  one  is  accustomed  to  admire 
more  often  on  the  canvas  than  in  the  flesh,  or  how 
embarrassed  I  felt  beneath  this  dignity  of  grief.  My 
action  no  longer  presented  itself  in  the  light  of  an 
ordinary  civility,  but  as  an  insult  I  was  unable  to 
defend.  She  thanked  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes  for 
the  kindness  I  was  showing  to  her  sick  mother,  yet 
making  it  clear  that  it  was  a  charity  they  must  cease 
thenceforward  to  accept.  I  could  only  bow,  and 
acquiesce. 

My  condition,  which  had  previously  given  promise 
of  improvement,  now  suffered  some  slight  relapse; 
exercise  became  a  terrible  fatigue,  and  the  local  prac- 
titioner in  attendance  upon  the  patient  upstairs,  while 
assuring  me  there  was  no  occasion  for  alarm,  averred 
that  my  renewed  weakness  was  the  result  of  prema- 
ture exertion,  and  insisted  upon  my  absolute  rest.  I 
was  confined  to  the  house. 

During  this  melancholy  imprisonment  I  received 
every  evening  a  bunch  of  wild-flowers,  with  Mrs. 
West's  compliments.  It  was  a  graceful  recognition, 
but  as  Mrs.  West  herself  rarely  issued  from  her 
room,  I  easily  divined  they  were  plucked  by  the 
daughter,  who,  at  Dr.  Cree's  advice,  habitually  went 
out  towards  sunset  for  an  hour's  stroll.  I  grew  to 
watch  for  these  flowers;  their  arrival  was  a  break 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GREEK   FACE  147 

in  my  solitude ;  it  seemed  less  dismal  when  they  came. 
On  Tuesday  the  wonted  knock  was  waited  for  in 
vain;  I  speedily  knew  why:  Miss  West  had  departed 
that  afternoon  for  town.  She  returned  extremely 
late  the  same  night,  and  on  Wednesday  Mrs.  Watson 
approached  me  with  the  stereotyped  message  of 
inquiry,  and  bearing  the  diurnal  bouquet. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  I  was  rapidly  becoming 
convalescent,  and  I  had  an  opportunity,  on  entering 
the  crescent,  after  a  short  excursion,  of  more  directly 
conveying  my  thanks  for  this  mark  of  their  solici- 
tude. Miss  West,  in  a  jacket  and  hat,  was  on  the 
steps. 

"We  should  have  been  very  ungrateful  else,"  she 
said  in  response,  "and  we  were  neither  of  us  that, 
though  I  was  afraid  you  thought  so." 

"No,  indeed,"  I  answered  lamely;  "I  only  thought 
I  had  taken  an  unwarrantable  liberty  you  would  never 
forgive." 

We  stood  looking  down  the  crescent  at  the  sea, 
in  the  silence  that  will  occur  between  people  newly 
introduced,  even  when  they  are  intelligent  enough  to 
perceive  its  absurdity. 

"You  are  an  indefatigable  nurse,  Miss  West;  you 
must  enjoy  your  brief  recreation?" 

"If  I  were  less  anxious  about  my  mother,"  she 
replied,  "I  should  like  it  more;  I  feel  very  selfish  in 
leaving  her." 

"I  trust  she  is  recovering?" 


148  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"I  hardly  know;  but  she  will  have  it  that  I  require 
fresh  air,  and  I  cannot  shake  her  belief  in  the  neces- 
sity. Good-bye;  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  much 
better!" 

This  exchange  of  conventionalities,  vapid  as  it  ap- 
pears, when  transcribed  in  black  and  white,  exhila- 
rated me  to  a  surprising  extent;  I  retired  to  my  room 
in  higher  spirits  than  I  had  been  in  for  months. 

It  would  be  but  dreary  reading,  I  fear,  were  I  to 
record  the  successive  stages  by  which  the  acquain- 
tanceship progressed;  how  from  these  casual  rencon- 
tres, gradually  protracted,  I  became,  by-and-by,  the 
companion  of  her  walks. 

It  is  enough  to  say  that  this  hour  was  the  oasis 
in  the  desert  of  my  monotony;  that,  excepting  my 
landlady,  she  was  the  only  human  being  with  whom 
I  had  the  chance  to  talk.  Not  the  faintest  bashful- 
ness  of  manner  marred  the  frankness  of  her  speech; 
for  any  coquetry  or  hesitation  she  evinced  I  might 
have  been  conversing  with  a  man.  Yet  I  caught 
myself  continually  recalling  the  latest  interview, 
impatiently  speculating  about  the  next. 

So  my  existence  here  gained  an  interest.  The 
arrangement  of  my  furniture  ceased  to  oppress  me 
by  its  precision;  the  waxwork  fruit  and  the  china- 
shepherdess  no  longer  struck  me  as  grotesque.  I 
now  looked  chiefly  at  the  clock. 

Not,  however,  till  she  announced  to  me  her  pro- 
jected absence  for  a  few  days,  did  I  realise  how  great 


THE   GIRL    WITH    THE    GREEK    FACE  149 

that  interest  was.  Business  called  her  mother  to 
London,  and  it  was  impossible  that  she  could  travel 
alone;  indeed,  in  her  feeble  state,  the  undertaking 
was  fraught  with  considerable  danger.  I  dreaded 
the  result. 

"I  shall  miss  you  very  much,  Miss  West,"  I  said. 

"And  I  am  sorry  to  go ;  besides,  the  expense  is  an 
inconvenience,  too  !"  she  rejoined,  simply.  She  never 
disguised  their  position,  even  while  she  repudiated 
help.  "Do  you  know,  Mr.  Deane,  that  until  we  came 
here  I  had  never  seen  the  sea,  and  now  it  seems  such 
a  bewildering,  wonderful  thing  to  me,  who  view  it 
for  the  first  time.  I  dare  say  it  sounds  odd  to  own 
I  have  never  built  castles  on  the  sands,  and  bought 
toy-buckets,  like  everybody  else,  but  all  my  years 
have  been  passed  in  Town,  and  my  childhood  was 
curiously  unlike  most.  There  is  a  sense  of  satisfac- 
tion in  the  knowledge  that  nearly  all  our  luggage 
will  be  left  behind  to-morrow,  and  we  should  be  sure 
to  come  back  to  fetch  it,  even  if  we  did  not  return 
to  stay;  those  trunks  are  a  sort  of  connecting-link 
between  the  yellow  beach  and  the  'two-pair-back'  in 
a  dirty  little  road  where  the  milk-cans  hang  on  the 
area-railings  'from  noon  to  dewy  eve,'  and  our  neigh- 
bours repair  their  broken  window-panes  with  brown- 
paper  plaisters." 

She  had  never  till  then  referred,  ever  so  vaguely, 
to  anything  beyond  the  immediate  present,  and  I 
was  flattered  by  these  allusions  to  her  mode  of  life, 


150  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

the  one  topic  which  must  always  be  the  sweetest  to 
a  man  in  converse  with  the  woman  he  loves.  Yes, 
loves;  I  knew  it  as  I  stood  beside  her  on  the  deserted 
pierhead  in  the  twilight — knew  this  woman  was  to 
me  what  none  had  ever  been  before,  what  none  other 
could  be  on  God's  earth  again. 

"I  told  you  I  should  miss  you,"  I  repeated;  "I 
cannot  say  how  much !  To-morrow  night  I  shall  be 
here  alone,  thinking  of  you,  trying  to  picture  you 
amongst  surroundings  where  I  have  never  seen  you, 
and  yet  trying,  because  in  imagination  it  will  take  me 
nearer  to  you !" 

The  breeze,  blowing  fresh  across  the  Channel,  had 
brought  a  flush  to  the  pale  cheek;  her  breast  was 
heaving  irregularly  beneath  her  cape,  with  some  re- 
pressed emotion  her  reminiscence  had  evoked.  At 
my  last  words  she  started  slightly,  and  I  fancied  she 
looked  annoyed. 

"I  have  not  offended  you?  Tell  me  I  am  not  quite 
indifferent  to  you — at  least  that  I  haven't  presumed ! 
It  is  only  now  that  I  understand  what  your  society 
has  been  to  me.  Miss  West — Alma,  its  loss  would 
be  more  than  I  could  bear!" 

"You  mean  that  you  are  in  love  with  me,"  she 
said,  inquiringly,  turning  her  eyes  to  mine,  "and  you 
have  known  me  a  month  ?  How  strange !  Do  men 
fall  in  love  like  that?  Well,  my  friend — for  you 
have  been  a  very  true  friend  to  me — if  I  cared  for 
you  in  the  way  you  would  have,  or  if  I  hated  you,  I 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GREEK   FACE  151 

might  give  you  another  answer;  I  do  neither,  and  I 
will  be  candid !  You  admire  me — it  will  do  you  no 
harm;  you  will  be  with  me  while  I  am  here,  you  will 
talk  to  me,  and  you  will  continue  to  admire.  Pres- 
ently you  will  go  away;  in  two  or  three  months  you 
will  have  forgotten  I  exist,  and  to  console  you  whilst 
you  still  remember,  be  assured  that  of  all  the  women 
in  the  world,  you  were  about  to  propose  to  the  one 
who  would  have  made  you  the  worst  wife." 

Suddenly  she  came  towards  me.  Her  self-posses-1 
sion  appeared  to  have  deserted  her;  she  was  trans- 
figured. 

"Kiss  me  I"  she  cried;  "kiss  me !  You  are  fond  of 
me — it  will  please  you,  and  I  shall  feel  less  bad." 

I  took  her  in  my  arms.  I  covered  with  kisses  her 
mouth,  her  brow,  her  hair,  she  yielding  herself  pas- 
sively to  my  embrace. 

"Now  let  us  go  in,"  she  said;  "it  begins  to  get 
cold." 

Five  days  passed  without  bringing  me  tidings  of 
the  absentees.  On  the  sixth,  Mrs.  Watson  and  I  each 
received  a  hasty  note  from  Alma,  to  the  effect  that 
Mrs.  West  was  utterly  prostrated,  and  it  was  still 
difficult  to  conjecture  how  soon  they  would  be  able 
to  start. 

They  had  been  gone  almost  a  fortnight,  when 
Selina,  the  maid-of-all-work,  in  opening  the  door  to 
me,  informed  me  that  Miss  West  had  just  arrived. 

"And  Mrs.  West?"  I  said. 


152  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

There  was  no  need  to  ask.  I  knew  it  directly  the 
question  was  framed;  Alma,  attired  in  the  deepest 
mourning,  her  eyelids  red  with  weeping,  stood  before 
me  in  the  narrow  passage.  Her  mother  was  dead. 

"Please  don't  speak  of  it,"  she  whispered,  pite- 
ously ;  "please  don't !  I  can't  bear  that  yet" 

For  forty-eight  hours  she  kept  her  room,  and 
when  I  saw  her  again  she  had  come  to  say  good-bye. 
The  thought  of  parting  from  her,  perhaps  for  ever, 
was  physical  pain.  A  great  knot  gathered  in  my 
throat.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  own  emotion;  it 
seemed  childish  to  show  her  that  I  suffered  so.  I 
implored  her  to  remain.  I  entreated  her  to  become 
my  wife. 

It  was  then  this  girl  made  me  the  following  re- 
markable reply: 

"Homeless,  penniless,  defenceless,"  she  said; 
"don't  tempt  me !" 

"If  it  is  a  temptation,  why  do  you  resist  it?" 

She  looked  at  me  wistfully. 

"There  might  be  so  many  reasons,  might  there 
not?"  she  murmured.  "Well,  I  will  give  you  one — 
because  I  do  not  love  you !" 

"You  do  not  love  me !"  I  said.    "And  yet " 

"And  yet  I  asked  you  to  kiss  me,  you  mean !  My 
friend,  that  was  impulse,  not  passion;  you  looked 
so  miserable,  and  I  felt  so  guilty  in  comparison.  No, 
do  not  misunderstand  me;  don't  judge  me  too 
harshly.  You  need  not  blush  for  the  recollection; 


THE   GIRL    WITH    THE    GREEK    FACE  153 

since  I  lost  my  father  you  are  the  only  man  whose 
lips  have  ever  touched  my  face.  There,  very  few 
girls  could  have  told  you  so  much  as  that;  but  still 
I  am  not  worthy,  and  you  would  regret." 

"Think!"  I  exclaimed — "think  what  it  is  that 
awaits  you.  The  misery,  the  poverty!  You  have 
just  painted  that  future  in  three  words.  Alma,  con- 
sider." 

"You  press  me  hard,"  she  said. 

"I  offer  you  a  home,  rest,  love !"  I  continued  pas- 
sionately. "You  say  I  shall  regret;  you  misjudge 
yourself  and  me !  I  have  passed  the  period  when 
a  man,  in  the  egotism  of  youth,  pictures  a  feminine 
reproduction  of  his  own  character,  and  christens  it 
his  ideal.  I  do  not  expect  to  find  a  woman  whose 
mind  will  be  the  mirror  of  my  own,  whose  remarks 
will  be  the  echoes  of  my  opinions;  I  don't  want  to 
find  her!  I  want  one  whom  I  admire  for  her  indi- 
viduality, her  beauty,  and  her  purity;  Alma,  you  are 
that  woman,  and  I  love  you.  Pity  me,  my  darling, 
and  say  'yes' !" 

She  had  paused,  her  arm  behind  her,  swaying 
upon  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  mechanically;  "I  consent" 

We  were  married. 

And  it  is  here  I  discover  how  impotent,  how  weak 
my  writing  is.  I  have  not  at  my  command  one  single 
sentence  towards  portraying  to  you  the  tranquillity, 
the  supreme  contentment  of  this  time. 


154  THIS   STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

I  had  been  her  husband  a  week  when  a  letter 
reached  me  from  my  parents,  saying  they  would  be 
in  England  (D.V.)  that  very  afternoon.  They  were, 
as  yet,  ignorant  of  my  marriage,  since  I  had  desired 
to  acquaint  them  with  the  fact  by  word  of  mouth, 
and  I  determined  to  wait  upon  them  in  Clapham 
immediately  on  their  arrival,  and  go  back  to  Worth- 
ing the  following  night.  Alma,  who  had  been  restless 
and  unlike  herself  since  morning,  was  delighted. 

"Go !"  she  said,  excitedly.  "Go !  Let  us  have  no 
more  concealment  after  to-day." 

I  kissed  her,  and  departed,  reaching  The  Myrtles 
at  five  o'clock,  only  to  meet  with  a  disappointment, 
for  after  I  had  waited  three  hours  a  telegram  was 
delivered  to  the  housekeeper,  stating  that  the  return 
had  been  unavoidably  postponed. 

I  was  in  doubt  whether  I  should  remain  in  Lon- 
don, as  I  had  intended,  or  take  the  next  train  back 
to  Alma.  While  I  sauntered,  undecided,  along  the 
Kennington  Road,  I  was  brought  suddenly  to  a  stand- 
still by  a  startling  sight. 

At  a  corner  of  the  gaslit  street,  hurrying  through 
the  crowd,  with  a  white,  set  face,  I  saw  my  wife. 
She  passed  without  observing  me,  and  I  followed 
her  covertly,  oppressed  by  an  indefinable  fear.  Pres- 
ently she  stopped  before  a  rambling,  old-fashioned 
building,  which  she  entered.  A  moment  afterwards 
I,  also,  was  inside. 

A  narrow  room,  illuminated  by  two  suspended 


THE   GIRL    WITH    THE    GREEK    FACE  155 

lamps,  an  attendance  of  perhaps  thirty  persons,  from 
infants  wailing  in  their  mothers'  arms  to  men  and 
women  already  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  All  eyes 
turned  expectantly  towards  a  platform  at  the  end, 
separated  from  the  auditorium  by  a  dingy  crimson 
rope,  and  communicating  by  a  door  with  some  other 
room.  I  could  not  have  told  you  what  I  dreaded, 
but  I  no  longer  seemed  to  breathe.  There  was  a 
murmur  of  expectation;  the  door  slowly  opened,  and 
Alma  confronted  us  all. 

I  understand  I  was  carried  into  the  air  unconscious 
— I  who  had  pulled  stroke  in  the  'Varsity  boat,  for 
before  she  had  spoken  five  minutes  I  had  learnt  three 
things : 

1.  That  she  had  been  known  to  these  people  for 
the  past  six  years; 

2.  That  she  was  giving  her  farewell  discourse; 

3.  That  my  wife  was  an  Atheist  lecturer. 

The  cry  I  could  not  stifle  attracted  her  attention; 
the  words  died  on  her  lips;  she  gave  a  low  moan, 
and  I  knew  no  more.  When  I  sought  her  she  was 
gone.  No  line  from  her  came  to  me,  nor,  despite 
my  efforts,  have  I  ever  succeeded  in  tracing  her,  from 
that  night  down  to  the  present  time.  If  she  yet  pur- 
sues this  awful  calling,  if  she  has  found  the  true 
Light,  if  she  is  dead — nothing  is  known  to  me !  This 
is  my  confession,  avowed  to  you  in  full.  Take  it, 
the  manuscript  is  yours;  should  you  choose  to  make 
it  public,  now  or  hereafter,  you  have  my  sanction, 


156  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

for  the  silence  has  worn  me  out,  and  I  can  no  longer 
distinguish  between  right  and  wrong.  My  secret 
is  in  your  hands,  my  friend;  do  with  it  what  seems 
the  best ! 

ill 
[Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  Alma  West] 

September  yd,  1884. 

IT  is  the  anniversary  of  my  wedding-day.  Shall  I 
never  be  permitted  to  forget  it?  Will  that  eternal 
self-reproach  haunt  me  to  the  end?  How  good  he 
was — how  true,  although  I  did  not  care  for  him! 
Yes,  this  book  reminds  me  of  it;  I  cannot  shirk  the 
truth.  I  married  him  for  the  peace  he  offered,  like 
the  coward  that  I  was,  and  believed  I  could  bury  my 
past  in  his  home.  What  a  wretch!  I  deserved  to 
be  found  out!  And  now — now,  if  I  could  only  lay 
my  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  say,  "Forgive  me;  I 
am  so  ill,  and  I  love  you !"  I  should  be  happy. 

Oh,  am  I  going  to  die,  alone  like  this?  I  can't 
write;  I  am  crying. 

September  $th. 

I  have  given  up  the  needlework.  I  cannot  see  to 
stitch.  The  doctor  will  not  come  again;  I  cannot 
pay  him. 

Oh,  my  mother,  my  father,  where  are  you  ?    No- 


THE   GIRL   WITH   THE   GREEK   FACE  157 

body  is  near  me.    Arthur,  my  darling,  I  am  starving. 
Why  are  you  not  here? 

September  6th. 

I  shall  write  till  I  cannot  guide  a  pen,  for  my  last 
words  will  be  left  addressed  to  him.  The  thought 
has  given  me  strength;  it  is  as  if  I  were  talking  to 
him  again.  Does  he  remember  me,  who  loved  me 

so  well  then?     Shall  I  meet  him  when,  where 

Oh,  why  was  I  born ! 

September  i^th. 

I  have  been  worse;  these  lines  are  traced  in  bed. 
Not  a  human  being  has  been  to  see  me.  I  am  in  this 
garret  by  myself.  I  have  pinned  a  paper  to  the  wall, 
begging  that  my  diary  may  be  sent  to  Arthur.  They 
will  do  it  when  they  find  my  corpse.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  dreaming,  and  Arthur  has  been  kissing 
me.  .  .  .  The  room  is  so  dark  and  cold.  I  suffer; 
I  am  frightened. 

September  I'jth. 

I  can  no  longer  drag  myself  across  the  floor. 
Arthur,  come  to  me;  I  am  dying.  Where  am  I  going? 
I  am  afraid  to  think !  Why  are  you  not  here  to  pray 
for  me?  Arthur — husband,  hold  me  backl  Every- 
thing is  slipping  from  me.  Hold  me  back  .  .  .  pray 
for  me,  forgive  me,  pity  me  1  Oh,  my  God — my 
God , 


WITH   INTENT  TO   DEFRAUD 

HE  wished  he  were  dead.  It  was  not  a  "phrase," 
a  verbal  extravagance ;  he  wished  it.  The  only  time 
he  was  free  from  anxiety  was  when  he  was  asleep. 
His  days  were  filled  with  worries  and  disappoint- 
ments, and  the  ceaseless  effort  to  make  civil  words 
do  the  duty  of  money;  and  it  often  occurred  to 
George  Collier,  when  he  lay  his  head  on  the  pillow, 
that  if  no  to-morrow  morning  came  to  disturb  him, 
it  would  be  a  very  restful  state  of  things. 

He  was  a  literary  man.  When  he  married  Eva 
Kingston  he  thought  he  had  "arrived."  He  was 
nine  and  twenty,  and  had  already  won  his  spurs.  His 
reviews  were  splendid;  he  was  called  "powerful," 
"unconventional,"  "scholarly,"  "fine;"  the  press- 
cuttings  his  publishers  sent  him  made  his  heart  glow. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  book  did  not  sell,  and  he 
was  unable  to  command  any  higher  price  for  his 
ntext  one. 

It  seemed  an  anomalous  condition  of  affairs.  His 
work  comme'nded  itself  to  the  most  exacting  critics, 
and  yet  did  not  please  the  public.  Of  course  he 
hoped,  and  Eva  was  sympathetic,  and  he  went  on 
writing  patiently.  But  by  degrees  he  saw  that  his  con- 

158 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD        159 

fidence  had  been  premature;  and  then  he  saw  that 
his  marriage  had  been  premature;  and  then  a  child 
was  born,  and  he  gave  up  his  ideals,  and  sank  to 
pot-boiling,  and  the  pot-boiling  did  not  make  the  pot 
boil  very  violently,  either. 

A  baby  added  to  his  embarrassments  a  good  deal. 
The  long  clothes  seemed  no  sooner  bought  than  it 
needed  short  clothes,  and  he  had  hardly  recovered 
from  the  cost  of  these  than  it  had  grown  out  of 
them.  The  nurse  appeared  to  lie  awake  all  night 
thinking  what  she  could  ask  for  next,  and  she  was  a 
superior  person,  with  imagination. 

To-day  there  were  school  fees  to  be  paid,  and  Eva 
was  no  longer  sympathetic,  and  their  address  was 
Pandora  Road,  Balham.  The  little  house  to  the 
right  was  called  "Fotheringay,"  and  the  one  to  the 
left  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  "St.  Olaph's,"  and  when 
they  moved  in,  Collier,  in  a  fit  of  moroseness,  had 
labelled  their  own  abode  "Box  Cottage,"  and  in- 
curred the  animosity  of  the  street  for  ever. 

Yes,  Eva's  sympathy  had  worn  out,  like  the  cheap 
drawing-room  carpet,  that  had  been  so  pretty  when 
it  was  new.  Benighted  Balham  and  the  tedium  of 
Tooting  had  got  on  her  nerves,  perhaps,  or  George, 
the  failure,  was  a  different  man  from  the  brilliant 
novelist  with  whom  she  had  pictured  herself  receiv- 
ing the  notabilities  of  art  and  literature  at  musical 
"At  Homes,"  where  she  would  be  attired  in  Liberty 
frocks.  Anyhow,  when  he  reflected  that  there  had 


l6o  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

been  a  time  when  he  wrote  poetry  about  her,  he 
turned  hot. 

She  was  a  pale,  slight  woman,  with  gray  eyes  and 
fluffy  hair,  and  a  red  flannel  dressing-gown  in  the 
morning.  After  lunch,  when  she  made  her  toilette, 
the  gray  eyes  acquired  a  depth  and  soulfulness  which 
was  due  to  black  cosmetique,  and  nobody  would  have 
suspected  the  tart  and  vulgar  reproaches  that  could 
fall  from  her  lips.  Had  she  been  what  she  looked, 
he  sometimes  thought,  contemplating  her  wonder- 
ingly  when  an  acquaintance  was  present,  his  courage 
would  not  have  deserted  him  so  soon.  But,  if  he 
had  confessed  she  weighed  on  him,  the  acquaintance 
would  have  considered  him  an  unappreciative  brute; 
she  looked  too  wistful,  and  delicate,  and  fragile,  to 
weigh  on  anyone. 

He  was  forty  years  of  age,  and  soberly  and  delib- 
erately* he  wished  he  were  dead.  Only  one  thing 
deterred  him  from  making  away  with  himself  in  a 
painless  fashion,  and  that  was  the  knowledge  that  he 
would  leave  her  and  the  "chick"  unprovided  for. 

This  was  his  frame  of  mind  when  he  came  to 
project  what  can  only  be  described  as  a  fraud.  He 
saw  his  way  to  dying  comfortably,  and  still  taking 
care  that  the  "chick"  and  Eva  did  not  want.  That 
is  to  say,  he  would  have  seen  his  way  if  he  could 
have  raised  the  money  necessary  to  pay  the  premium. 
He  proposed  to  assure  his  life,  and  then  commit 
suicide. 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD        l6l 

The  curious  part  of  it  was  that  he  had  always 
been  a  singularly  scrupulous  man,  and  "as  honest  as 
the  day" — that  oft-quoted  day  which  nobody  remem- 
bers. People  had  often  asserted  he  was  "too  con- 
scientious to  get  on."  He  had  never  wronged  any- 
one by  so  much  as  sixpence  in  all  his  straits,  and  could 
have  stood  in  a  witness-box,  to  be  cross-examined, 
without  a  tremor.  His  record  was  blameless,  and 
his  integrity  notorious.  Yet  now  he  was  meditating 
robbery  on  an  extensive  scale,  and  barely  perceiving 
his  defection. 

A  man  he  knew  very  well,  and  who  frequently 
dropped  in  of  an  evening,  was  Mr.  Horace  Orkney, 
a  solicitor.  George  was  not  sensible  of  any  strong 
degree  of  esteem  for  him,  but — perhaps  for  that 
very  reason — Orkney  looked  the  likeliest  person  for 
what  he  wanted,  and  one  afternoon  he  betook  him- 
self to  the  gentleman's  office. 

"I  have,"  he  said,  when  greetings  had  been  ex- 
changed, "come  on  rather  delicate  business.  I 
needn't  tell  you  that  what  I  am  going  to  say  is  in 
confidence." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Orkney,  drawing  out  the  ends 
of  his  moustache. 

"The  fact  is,  things  aren't  going  well  with  me.  I 
am  deadly  tired  of  it  all,  and  er — it  sounds  a  curious 
statement — I  am  anxious  to  make  away  with  myself." 

The  lawyer  was  only  thirty-six,  and  he  started. 
Professional  calm  reasserted  itself  a  moment  later, 


1 62  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

however,  and  he  echoed  George's  last  words  in  meas- 
ured tones : 

"To  make  away  with  yourself  ?    Oh,  nonsense !" 

"I  am,"  repeated  Collier;  "but  my  life  isn't  as- 
sured. You  see  the  difficulty.  I  am  bound  to  think 
of  my  wife  and  child,  and  they  would  be  practically 
penniless." 

"Assure  it,"  suggested  Mr.  Horace  Orkney,  with 
a  shrug,  "if  you  are  determined!  But,  my  dear 
Collier,  do  let  me  dissuade  you  from  entertaining 
such  a — such  a Really,  you  know !"  He  with- 
drew his  monogrammed  handkerchief,  and  shook  it 
out  daintily,  diffusing  an  agreeable  odour  of  white 
rose.  "You  distress  me  very  much." 

"I  won't  trouble  you  with  my  arguments,"  re- 
sponded Collier;  "I  haven't  come  to  discuss  the  pros 
and  cons,  or  to  waste  your  time.  My  mind  is  made 
up,  and  I  know  my  own  mind  better  than  anybody 
else  can  tell  it  to  me.  You  say,  'assure  it;'  the  point 
is  that  I'm  unable  to  do  so,  because  I  can't  put  my 
hands  on  the  money." 

"Oh,"  said  Orkney.  "The  premiums  aren't 
heavy,"  he  added,  after  a  pause.  "How  much  did 
you  think  of  assuring  for?" 

"While  I  am  about  it  I  want  to  make  an  adequate 
provision;  I  want  to  arrange  so  that  there  shall  be 
an  income  of,  say,  four  or  five  hundred  per  annum. 
I  know  what  the  premium  would  be  on  an  amount 
to  yield  that  from  a  safe  investment,  and  I  should 


WITH    INTENT  TO    DEFRAUD  163 

pay  it  for  a  year  down! — it  would  be  better.  I 
reckon  it  three  hundred  and  twenty  pounds.  Now, 
my  idea  was " 

"Was — what?"  asked  the  solicitor,  blandly,  as  he 
hesitated. 

George  was  a  little  nervous.    His  gaze  wandered. 

"My  idea  was  that  you  might  be  willing  to  advance 
me  the  sum,  to  be  repayable,  with  interest,  at  my 
death.  I — I  am  eager  to  make  the  proposal  as  at- 
tractive as  I  can.  Advance  me  three  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds,  and  I'll  have  a  will  drawn  up  at 
once,  and  leave  you  a  thousand.  How  does  it  strike 
you?  I  think  myself  it's  very  fair." 

Horace  Orkney  tapped  his  fingers  together  pen- 
sively. 

"A  company  contests  the  claim  in  a  case  of  sus- 
pected suicide,"  he  said;  "you  are  overlooking  that." 

"I  am  overlooking  nothing.  I  have  thought  it 
all  out,  and  I  know  exactly  what  I  shall  do.  A 
cousin  of  my  wife's  has  a  cottage  in  Kent,  on  the 
Darenth.  We  have  often  stayed  there.  The  lawn 
slopes  to  the  river's  edge,  and  there  is  an  Indian 
canoe.  No  more  solitary  place,  especially  after  dusk, 
could  exist.  Now,  I  can  easily  contrive  so  that  we 
get  an  invitation  to  go  down  for  a  week.  One  eve- 
ning, after  working  hard  all  day,  I  shall  say  I  am 
going  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  I  shall  ask  what 
time  they  are  going  to  have  supper,  and  set  my  watch 
by  their  clock,  so  that  I  may  not  be  late  back.  I  shall 

\ 


164  THIS   STAGE    OF   FOOLS 

beg  my  wife  to  remind  me  of  an  important  letter 
I  have  to  write  in  the  morning,  and  step  out  through 
the  window  in  the  gayest  of  spirits.  Well,  the  canoe 
upsets.  It  is  known  I  do  not  swim.  Nothing  could 
be  simpler!" 

"But  your  intentions  may  alter,  my  friend.  And 
if  they  do,  I  have  advanced  you  three  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds,  and  where  am  I?  In  the  natural 
course  of  events,  you  may  live  for  thirty  or  forty 
years  to  come." 

"I  thought,"  said  Collier,  "of  waiting  to  put  an 
end  of  my  life  till  the  spring,  so  as  to  avert  any  pos- 
sibility of  a  suspicious  complexion.  If  you  think  it 
judicious,  the  'accident'  shall  occur  next  month !" 

There  was  another  silence. 

"I  will  consider,"  said  Mr.  Orkney,  at  length. 
"Now  you  must  let  me  send  you  away;  I'm  busy." 

Having  considered,  he  agreed.  He  provided 
George  Collier  with  the  sum  of  three  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  to  take  out  a  policy,  and  George  made 
a  will  by  which  Mr.  Horace  Orkney  was  bequeathed 
one  thousand.  The  rest  went  to  Eva,  who,  to  give 
her  her  due,  was  an  affectionate  mother. 

The  weary  man  was  now  comparatively  contented. 
In  April  he  was  to  die,  and  it  was  already  Novem- 
ber. To  make  quite  certain  there  should  be  no  hitch 
in  the  post-mortem  proceedings,  it  had  been  decided 
that  he  should  wait  till  April.  He  had  had  hopes 
that  Orkney  would  declare  it  was  safe  for  him  to  take 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD        165 

the  step  earlier,  but  on  reflection  the  lawyer  had 
pronounced  it  inadvisable,  and  said  it  would  be  wiser 
for  him  to  keep  to  the  date  he  had  originally  sug- 
gested. 

It  was  a  disappointment,  but  George  was  too 
grateful  to  complain  of  a  crumpled  rose-leaf.  He 
had  borne  the  slings  and  arrows  so  hopelessly  that 
it  was  a  pity  if  he  could  not  contemplate  their  con- 
tinuance for  five  more  months !  No,  he  was  not  un- 
reasonable, and,  as  first  one  week  wore  away,  and 
then  another,  his  satisfaction  increased.  He  felt  like 
an  overworked  man  looking  forward  to  a  long  holi- 
day. 

There  was  a  serious  epidemic  of  influenza  in  Lon- 
don that  year.  Everybody  who  could  afford  to  do  so 
was  flying  to  the  Continent,  or  to  the  English  water- 
ing-places, and  among  those  who  remained  in  Town, 
and  were  laid  low,  was  Mrs.  Collier.  This  was  at 
Christmas. 

The  doctor  did  not  at  the  beginning  regard  her 
case  gravely,  but  she  got  worse,  despite  his  encour- 
agement, and  after  a  fortnight  in  bed  she  sank  and 
died. 

George  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  Though  he 
had  long  since  outlived  his  illusions  about  her,  she 
had  been  his  wife,  his  daily  companion.  To  realise 
that  she  was  gone  dismayed  him.  He  remembered 
the  girl  he  had  loved,  and  shed  tears  at  the  grave 
of  the  woman  who  had  developed  from  her.  Not 


1 66  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

analysing,  not  drawing  the  distinction,  but  just  griev- 
ing honestly. 

After  she  was  buried,  and  he  sat  in  the  quiet 
parlour,  smoking  at  night,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
as  the  child  would  now  be  doubly  an  orphan,  he  must 
arrange  where  she  was  to  live  when  April  came. 
Under  the  circumstances  she  would  be  an  heiress, 
and  he  wanted  her  correspondingly  educated.  For- 
tunately, he  had  a  maiden  sister,  upon  whom  he  could 
depend  to  carry  out  his  wishes  in  this  respect,  and 
he  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  reflecting  how  troubled 
he  would  have  been  for  the  "chick's"  future  other- 
wise. 

And  January  came  to  an  end,  and  February  broke, 
and  then  February  waned,  and  it  was  March. 

Collier  was  surprised  to  find  how  rapidly  the  time 
had  passed  since  the  funeral.  He  put  "March  ist" 
at  the  top  of  a  letter  very  slowly,  and  sat  look- 
ing at  it  with  startled  eyes.  A  month  more,  and 
the  consummation  would  be  reached.  Poor  little 
"Chick,"  he  would  have  to  leave  her! 

Oddly,  now  the  end  of  it  all  was  so  near,  he  was 
conscious  of  feeling  less  impatience  than  he  had  done. 
He  had  been  sensible,  of  late,  of  a  certain  enjoyment 
in  life — a  new  enjoyment  The  quiet  parlour,  with 
his  pipe,  and  the  Chronicle,  had  been  pleasant.  He 
had  gone  up  to  his  room  at  night  without  a  groan, 
and  seated  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  morning  with 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD        167 

an  unfamiliar  zest.  Only  a  month!  Well,  let  him 
make  the  most  of  it. 

But  it  was  difficult.  The  remembrance  that  had 
been  so  welcome  had  become,  now  he  was  a  wid- 
ower, a  skeleton's  head,  which  obtruded  its  grisly 
presence  into  the  cosiest  hours.  Perhaps  "Chick" 
was  on  his  knee,  and  he  was  stroking  her  hair,  when 
it  grinned  at  him.  Perhaps  he  was  writing  through 
the  small  hours — interested  in  a  piece  of  work  he 
was  doing — and  it  appeared.  Of  what  use  to  have 
"Chick"  fond  of  him,  when  he  would  be  dead  di- 
rectly? Why  polish  and  revise  a  manuscript  so 
lovingly,  when  he  would  be  lying  in  his  grave  before 
it  was  in  print? 

He  shuddered.  There  was  no  benefit  in  blinking 
the  truth;  the  fact  was  that  the  conditions  had 
altered !  He  would  have  been  a  cheerful  man  to-day, 
for  all  his  pecuniary  worries,  if  he  had  been  allowed; 
nor  did  the  worries  themselves  look  so  formidable, 
somehow!  Eva  had  always  made  the  worst  of 
everything,  and — Heaven  forgive  him! — had  never 
been  a  manager.  It  was  amazing  what  a  difference 
her  removal  caused  in  every  way.  He  was  satisfied 
with  life,  and — he  knew  he  did  not  want  to  die ! 

At  last  he  determined  to  go  to  Orkney,  and  ask 
him  to  release  him  from  his  undertaking.  It  was 
an  unpleasant  task,  but  the  alternative  was  more 
distasteful  still,  and  he  went. 


1 68  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

Mr.  Orkney  looked  at  him  in  blank  disapproval 
when  he  had  stammered  to  a  conclusion. 

"This  is  very  unbusiness-like,"  he  said,  "very  un- 
business-like  indeed !  You  put  me  in  a  very  awkward 
situation,  Collier.  I  don't  want  to  see  you  die,  of 
course — I — I  hope  I  have  a  heart — but  an  agree- 
ment is  an  agreement,  and  I  have  great  occasion 
for  a  thousand  pounds.  As  it  happens,  I  have  a 
bill " 

"You  see,"  said  Collier,  helplessly,  "there's  the 
child!  I  don't  like  to  leave  her  alone  in  the  world." 

"I  thought  you  told  me  at  the  time  of  your  wife's 
death  that  she  could  go  to  an  aunt  in  Dorking?" 

"Yes,"  George  said,  "I  did.  But — well,  I  am  very 
fond  of  her.  The  parting  is  devilish  hard." 

"I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  any  harder  this  morn- 
ing than  when  you  came  here  and  made  your  pro- 
posal. I  did  a  friendly  thing  for  you,  and  I  must 
say  this  isn't  at  all  fair  treatment.  It  wasn't  an 
agreement  I  could  enforce,  you  know — I  relied  on 
your  honour;  and  now  you  put  me  off  with  empty 
excuses." 

"Don't  say  that!"  begged  George.  "To  tell  you 
the  honest  truth — I  don't  know  how  it  is — since  I 
lost  my  wife  I — I  am  not  so  depressed.  I  feel 
lighter,  and  there's  a  different  aspect  to  things.  I 
can't  explain  it." 

"No,"  said  Orkney,  firmly,  "I  won't  hear  it!  I 
won't  have  the  blame  laid  at  the  door  of  that  poor 


WITH   INTENT  TO   DEFRAUD  169 

little  woman.  That  is  cowardly,  Collier!  Be  a  man, 
and  say  you  have  changed  your  mind,  and  are  trying 
to  back  out." 

"Very  well,  thenr"  replied  Collier,  "I  have  changed 
my  mind.  I  want  to  live,  and  to  pay  you  the  thou- 
sand pounds  as  soon  as  I  can  get  it  together.  How 
does  it  suit  you?" 

The  solicitor  smiled  finely. 

"It  was  a  very  fair  rate  of  interest  for  the  time 
agreed  upon,"  he  said;  "but  for  a  period  of  years — 
Anyhow,  we  needn't  discuss  the  point.  So  far  as  I 
understand  your  position,  there  would  be  very  little 
prospect  of  your  being  able  to  pay  me  at  all — even 
the  principal." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Collier,  rising,  "you  won't 
consent?" 

"I  regret,"  said  Orkney — "I  regret  very  much  that 
you  should  have  put  such  a  suggestion  forward,  be- 
cause I  am  unable  to  consent  to  it,  and  it  is  a  particu- 
larly painful  one  to  refuse.  I  do  not  think  it  was 
delicate,  Collier;  it  wasn't  good  taste." 

'  'Good  taste,'  "  said  George,  hotly,  "be  damned! 
Finally,  you  insist  on  your  pound  of  flesh?" 

"Finally,"  responded  the  lawyer,  "I  repeat  that  if 
you  are  a  man  of  honour,  only  one  course  can  be 
adopted.  Good  day,  sir." 

He  touched  the  bell  on  his  table,  and  Collier 
passed  out  into  the  street. 

It  was  April  already,  and  he  had  either  to  break 


170  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

his  undertaking  or  fulfil  it  without  delay.  Instinct- 
ively he  saw  the  grim  humour  of  the  situation.  It 
was  material  for  a  story;  and  he  perceived  that,  if 
he  were  writing  it,  there  would  be  a  temptation  to 
comment  on  the  budding  trees,  and  the  "verdure  of 
the  young  grass,"  at  such  a  crisis,  in  contrast  to  the 
hero's  despair.  Or  perhaps  it  would  go  better  as 
a  comic  story?  Yes,  certainly  it  would,  he  decided. 
How  queer !  in  reality  there  was  so  little  comic  in  it. 
Why  could  it  not  be  treated  realistically? 

What  was  he  wasting  his  time  for  in  irrelevant 
considerations — he  had  to  come  to  a  conclusion !  He 
must  die,  or  tell  Orkney  he  was  resolved  to  "let  him 
in."  Which  should  it  be?  Both  courses  repelled 
him.  One  was  hideous,  and  the  other  was  contempt- 
ible. He  could  not  determine. 

He  vacillated  hourly  for  a  fortnight,  and  Mr.  Ork- 
ney, meanwhile,  seemed  ubiquitous.  Wherever  he 
went  he  met  him,  and  Orkney  always  stopped  and 
spoke,  and  asked  him  coldly  how  he  was. 

George  would  endeavour  to  reply  composedly,  but 
not  with  success.  Then  the  other  would  put  his 
eyebrows  up,  and  sigh  significantly,  and  Collier  went 
on  his  way,  feeling  despicable  and  ashamed. 

"To  Be  or  Not  to  Be,"  "The  Pound  of  Flesh"— 
what  a  number  of  titles  suggested  themselves  for 
the  story  that  might  be  written !  He  could  not  put 
the  thought  of  it  away  from  him,  and  one  evening 
he  actually  found  himself  sitting  at  his  desk  com- 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD        17 1 

mencing  it.  It  was  a  foolish  proceeding,  but  it  occu- 
pied— more,  interested  him,  and  his  pen  flew  rapidly. 
He  treated  the  subject  in  a  serious  narrative. 

At  one  o'clock  he  came  to  the  point  where  the 
end  must  be  led  up  to.  But  how  was  it  to  end?  He 
rose,  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  mechanically 
charging  his  pipe  afresh.  It  would  not  draw — where 
were  the  wires?  He  could  not  think  if  he  did  not 
smoke,  and  the  thing  was  stopped  up. 

The  wires  could  not  be  found;  perhaps  he  had 
used  the  last.  Formerly  he  had  annexed  his  wife's 
hair-pins  in  such  emergencies,  and,  as  a  last  resource, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  if  he  looked  in  the  wardrobe, 
where  her  belongings  had  been  put  away,  he  would 
find  some. 

The  key  was  on  his  own  ring,  and  he  went  upstairs. 
The  dead  woman's  trifles  had  been  stored  on  the 
shelves.  He  saw  her  work-basket  and  her  dressing- 
case,  and  the  set  of  ebony  brushes,  with  "E"  on  the 
backs  in  silver,  that  he  had  given  her  on  her  last 
birthday.  There  was  a  bonnet  she  had  been  trim- 
ming when  she  was  taken  ill,  with  the  needle  still 
sticking  in  it. 

He  paused;  what  he  was  doing  seemed  momen- 
tarily sacrilege.  Then  he  opened  the  dressing-case 
and  lifted  the  tray. 

There  were  some  hair-pins  scattered  at  the  bot- 
tom. There  was  also  a  bundle  of  letters,  tied  to- 
gether with  ribbon,  and  directed  in  a  handwriting 


172  THIS   STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

that  looked  familiar.  Collier  stared  at  it  Was  he 
making  a  mistake — or  what  had  been  the  purpose 
of  this  correspondence?  He  turned  white,  and  pulled 
the  letters  out. 

The  dates  they  bore  were  of  the  last  two  years. 
There  was  nothing  criminal  in  them,  despite  their 
lengthiness,  but  they  were  a  man's  confidential  com- 
munications to  a  woman  of  whom  he  is  fond.  They 
spoke  of  the  writer's  "sympathy,"  of  his  regret  that 
he  could  do  nothing  to  alleviate  the  dreariness  of 
her  lot;  there  were  frequent  allusions  to  what  "might 
have  been;"  and  they  began,  "Dearest  Mrs.  Collier," 
and  were  signed,  "Yours  with  affection,  Horace 
Orkney." 

George  stumbled  out  of  the  bedroom  and  returned 
to  the  "workshop,"  where  he  sank  into  his  chair, 
with  knitted  brows,  thinking.  After  a  while  he 
picked  up  his  pen  again,  but  he  did  not  continue  the 
tale. 

"DEAR  Sm;"  (he  wrote)  — 

"I  restore  you  the  enclosed  letters,  for  which  I 
have  no  use.  Henceforth  I  shall  make  my  home  in 
the  country  with  my  daughter.  I  perceive  that  her 
mother's  untimely  decease  frustrated  your  hope  of 
marrying  a  widow  whose  attractions  would  have  been 
accentuated  by  the  possession  of  nine  thousand 
pounds,  and  tender  you  my  condolence.  The  bequest 
in  my  will  will  stand,  but,  as  you  pointed  out  yourself 


WITH    INTENT  TO   DEFRAUD  173 

once,  I  may  live,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events, 
for  another  forty  years.  Believe  me  I  have  every 
intention  of  doing  so  if  I  can. 

"Yours  truly, 

"GEORGE  COLLIER." 

And  he  did,  and  became  a  very  successful  man. 


THE  BODY  AND  SOUL  OF  MISS  AZULAY 

"WHEN  Ethel  Ebden  persisted,  in  spite  of  her 
father's  arguments  and  her  mother's  prayers,  it  was 
an  instance  of  the  ephemeral  strength  with  which  a 
normally  weak  and  timid  nature  is  liable  to  startle 
everybody.  No  girl  more  unlikely  ever  to  defy  her 
parents,  or  to  want  to  go  to  West  Africa  as  the  wife 
of  a  missionary,  could  have  beeen  imagined,  by  all 
accounts,  up  to  the  time  she  was  twenty-two.  Yet 
at  twenty-two  and  a  half  she  did  both  things.  She 
left  the  house  in  Lancaster  Gate,  and  her  mare,  and 
her  maid,  and  a  mountain  of  millinery  that  she  would 
never  have  occasion  to  use,  and  sailed  with  the  man 
of  her  choice  to  convert  the  heathens  in  Abeokuta, 
where  she  was  the  only  white  woman  within  fifty 
miles,  and  was  found,  six  weeks  after  their  arrival, 
lying  on  the  floor  in  a  dead  faint,  induced  by  the  fact 
that  she  had  stroked  the  black  body  of  a  negro  in 
the  dusk,  under  the  impression  that  it  was  her  hus- 
band's dog. 

"Eight  months  later  her  nervous  terrors  were 
terminated  by  death.  She  was  buried  on  the  veldt, 
and  the  widower  read  her  funeral  service.  The 
daughter  to  whom  she  had  given  birth  was  adopted 

174 


THE   BODY   AND   SOUL   OF   MISS   AZULAY      175 

by  her  maternal  grandparents,  and  brought  up 
among  all  the  advantages  that  her  mother  had  re- 
nounced. The  blood  of  the  Society  girl  and  the  mis- 
sionary is  mingled  in  my  own  veins;  the  child  born 
in  a  hut,  and  educated  in  Hyde  Park,  was  I.  My 
friend,  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  a  believer  in 
hereditary  or  prenatal  influences,  but  I  am  too 
strange  a  mixture  to  make  any  man  happy  as  his 
wife,  and  I  shall  marry  no  one — be  comforted  in 
the  reflection.  Remember  your  career  and  forget 
me.  You  looked  awful  when  I  saw  you  in  the  Bois 
to-day. — GERALDINE." 

I  re-read  her  letter — how  many  times!  Yes,  I 
looked  awful,  and  I  felt  worse,  for  I  was  passion- 
ately in  love  with  her — none  the  less  passionately 
because  I  was  only  five  and  twenty,  and  she  was  a 
few  years  my  senior;  and  since  she  had  rejected  me,  a 
fortnight  before,  I  had  been  in  a  fair  way  to  drink 
myself  into  delirium  tremens. 

Let  me  set  down  the  manner  of  my  first  meeting 
with  her,  for  I  fell  under  her  spell  at  once. 

I  had  gone  to  the  Vaudeville,  and  she  was  in  a 
box — the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  house.  She 
bowed  to  the  man  who  had  accompanied  me,  and,  of 
course,  I  asked  him  who  she  was. 

"Miss  Azulay — isn't  she  superb !  She  is  very  rich, 
and  rather  curious.  Subscribes  largely  to  religious 
missions,  and  at  the  same  time  spends  a  fortune  on 


176  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

dress ;  gives  one  the  idea  of  being  indifferent  to  men, 
and,  for  all  that,  seems  bored  alone.  She  has  taken 
a  flat  on  the  Boulevard  Haussmann,  and  lives  with 
a  "companion" — the  faded  party  beside  her.  Would 
you  care  to  be  introduced?" 

"Really?" 

"Oh,  yes !  I'll  take  you  round  in  the  entr'acte,  if 
you  like." 

She  received  me  graciously,  and  the  diffidence  with 
which  I  had  entered  was  dispelled.  A  closer  view 
served  to  deepen  my  admiration.  She  was,  perhaps, 
thirty,  and  many  of  the  things  that  have  been  written 
of  the  woman  of  thirty  recurred  to  me  as  we  talked. 
Though  she  was  still  single,  I  was  certain  that  life 
had  held  emotions  for  her.  Experience  had  given 
to  the  lovely  face  just  that  suggestion  of  mystery — 
for  want  of  a  better  word — which  a  young  man 
finds  so  fascinating  in  the  opposite  sex.  For  all  her 
serenity — and  she  was  mondaine  from  the  flowers 
in  her  hat  to  the  hem  of  her  frock — here  was  one 
who  had  suffered,  I  told  myself;  though  the  gaze  of 
the  grand  gray  eyes  was  so  indifferent,  there  was  a 
shadow  in  them,  too.  But  I  did  not  think  she  had 
ever  gone  to  anybody  to  be  comforted  in  her  grief; 
the  mouth  was  too  firm  and  proud  for  that.  If  she 
had  cried,  she  had  cried  alone. 

Very  ridiculous,  you  say,  these  deductions,  in  the 
first  five  minutes  I  conversed  with  her?  It  is  quite 
true ;  but  remember  my  age — and  then,  studying  Art 


THE   BODY  AND   SOUL   OF   MISS   AZULAY      177 

in  Paris,  I  was  inclined  to  be  rather  French  in  my 
mental  attitude. 

A  little  landscape  of  mine  had  been  accepted  by 
the  Champ-de-Mars  that  season,  and  she  had  seen 
it,  and  spoke  to  me  about  it.  She  was  very  nice  to 
me,  very  sympathetic.  I  found  myself  saying  things 
to  her  quite  frankly,  things  that  do  not  usually  spring 
to  one's  lips  with  a  new  acquaintance  in  a  box  at  the 
Vaudeville;  and  she  seemed  interested,  and  encour- 
aged my  communicativeness.  When  I  rose  at  length, 
she  gave  me  permission  to  call  on  her.  "If  you  will 
come  in  one  afternoon,  when  you  are  able  to  spare 
the  time,  I  shall  be  glad,"  she  said.  I  returned  to 
my  fauteuil  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  delight.  My 
friend's  amused  comments  jarred  on  me,  and  I 
scarcely  knew  what  the  third  act  was  about.  I  was 
in  love  already. 

Well,  it  will  easily  be  understood  that  I  went  to 
the  Boulevard  Haussmann,  and  that  I  went  again, 
and  again.  I  always  found  her  just  returned  from 
her  drive,  and,  without  even  troubling  to  remove  her 
hat  and  gloves,  she  would  sink  into  a  chair,  and  talk 
to  me  as  informally  as  an  elder  sister.  Sometimes, 
too,  she  came  to  my  studio.  At  others,  I  encountered 
her  in  the  Bois.  Scarcely  a  day  passed,  at  last,  with- 
out my  seeing  her  somewhere.  Paris  no  longer 
meant  Art  to  me,  but  Geraldine  Azulay.  I  went  to 
bed  to  dream  of  her;  I  woke  up  thinking  of  her; 
I  regretted  that  I  was  not  a  portrait-painter,  or  a 


178  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

poet,  that  I  might  express  something  of  my  homage 
in  my  work. 

The  development  I  have  recorded.  One  after- 
noon I  confessed  the  truth;  I  told  her  I  adored  her. 
She  had  never  flirted  with  me,  and  there  was  no 
trace  of  gratification  in  her  manner  as  she  heard. 
She  said  she  was  sorry;  and  it  was  not  a  "phrase." 
If  ever  a  woman  was  sincere  with  a  man  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  Miss  Azulay  was  sincere  with 
me! 

I  had  expected  nothing  else,  and  yet — anomalous 
as  it  sounds — the  finality  of  her  answer  was  a  ter- 
rible blow.  I  did  what  all  boys  do  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, I  dissipated;  I  neglected  my  profession, 
and  behaved  in  a  way  that  I  blush  to  recall.  I  knew 
I  looked  ill,  and  I  wanted  Miss  Azulay  to  know  it, 
too.  I  threw  myself  in  her  path  for  the  express 
purpose. 

She  had  deserved  better  things  of  me,  and  I  real- 
ised it  when  that  letter  came.  It  was  the  letter  of 
a  woman  to  one  for  whom  she  feels  a  genuine  affec- 
tion; it  made  me  ashamed  of  myself.  I  re-read  it, 
as  I  have  said,  until  I  knew  it  by  heart.  Then  it 
seemed  to  me  that,  since  she  liked  me  so  much,  my 
cause  might  not  be  hopeless  after  all.  The  idea  was 
youthful,  but  exciting.  I  resolved  to  appeal  to  her 
a  second  time,  and  the  same  day  I  called  on  her 
again. 

She  had,  I  learnt,  just  come  in;  nevertheless,  she 


THE    BODY   AND   SOUL   OF   MISS   AZULAY      179 

did  not  keep  me  waiting.  She  entered  the  room 
almost  as  I  sat  down.  Her  costume  was  new  to 
me,  and  I  thought  how  admirably  it  became  her. 
She  greeted  me  with  a  smile,  and  then  stood  before 
the  mirror,  puttting  up  her  white  veil  among  the 
roses  and  the  ribbons  of  her  hat,  affecting  not  to 
notice  my  agitation. 

"Eh  bien,"  she  said,  turning,  "and  is  my  friend 
going  to  be  sensible?  Is  that  what  he  has  come  to 
say?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  have  come  to  tell  you  I  am 
going  to  be  sensible." 

"Thank  you !  I  mean  that.  Now  give  me  all  your 
news." 

"But  I  must  always  love  you,  because  I  can't  help 
it.  Only  I  won't  make  a  fool  of  myself  in  the  way 
I  have  been  doing." 

"But,  child,  I  don't  want  you  to  love  me,  either 
^not  as  you  do,  at  least.  I  thought  all  that  was 
understood?" 

"Geraldine,  is  there  no  chance  for  me?  Not  if 
I  am  patient,  if  I  wait,  and  make  a  name?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  you  are  cruel!    Why?" 

"Because  I  am  not  in  love  with  you,  in  the  first 
place.  That's  reason  enough." 

"In  time " 

"In  time  I  shall  be  forty,  and  lose  my  figure,  and 
there  will  be  crow's-feet  round  my  eyes.  In  time  you 


l8o  THIS   STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

may  be  famous,  and  sell  a  picture  for  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  francs.  In  time  many  things  may 
happen;  but  one  never  will — I  shall  not  marry  you! 
Have  you  seen  Sarah  in  her  new  piece?  Come,  let 
us  forget  this  nonsense." 

"I  never  shall  forget." 

"You  make  me  angry  with  you,"  she  said,  sharply. 

"And  why?" 

"Because  I  believe  you  mean  it." 

"Indeed  I  mean  it!"  I  declared. 

"If  I  weren't  fond  of  you,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug, 
"I  should  not  care — if  you  chose  to  be  silly,  you 
might.  But  I  am  fond  of  you;  interested  in  your 
career.  I  hate — yes,  I  do,  I  hate  myself  for  having 
made  you  think  about  me  so  stupidly.  I  wish  I  had 
never  been  friends  with  you;  I  wanted  to  help  you, 
and  do  you  lots  of  good,  and  instead  I  have  done 
nothing  but  harm."  She  put  her  delicate  gloved 
hand  on  my  sleeve,  with  a  change  of  tone  that  was 
almost  wistful:  "Do  be  strong,  there's  a  nice  boy, 
to — to  oblige  me." 

"I  can't,"  I  groaned.  "Oh,  I  can't!  You  don't 
know — I  can't  tell  you — how  I  have  been  suffering; 
my  life  is  a  hell.  If  you  are  so  fond  of  me,  why 
don't  you  take  pity  on  me?  You  could  make  me 
happy  easily  enough.  You  pretend  it  makes  you 
wretched  to  see  me  miserable;  you  pretend " 

"Hush!"  she  said.     "Don't  throw  doubts  on  my 


THE    BODY   AND    SOUL    OF    MISS    AZULAY      l8l 

affection  for  you.  It  mayn't  be  what  you  want,  but 
it  is  very  real!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  muttered.  "I'll  leave  you. 
You  are  very  'fond'  of  me,  indeed — what  you  call 
'fond' !  My  life  is  spoilt,  and  you  are  kind  enough 
to  try  to  patch  it  up  with  pretty  words.  I  wish  I 
were  dead,  and  you  say  gently,  'how  sorry  I  am !'  It 
is  very  generous  of  you,  and  I  am  very  grateful. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Azulay." 

"Stop,"  she  said. 

She  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  trembled.  Her  face 
had  turned  so  white  that  she  alarmed  me. 

"Come  back  at  seven,"  she  said,  "and  dine  with 
me.  You  shall  know  whether  I  am  sincere  or  not. 
Come  back  to  dinner,  and  you  shall  talk  to  me 
again." 

I  stood  gazing  at  her,  dumfounded. 

"I  am  quite  serious.  Remember,  at  seven  o'clock. 
I  will  marry  you,  or  cure  you — I  promise  you  that. 
Now  go." 

I  descended  to  the  street  as  one  in  a  dream.  She 
would  marry  me  or  cure  me,  she  had  said.  Stag- 
gered as  I  was,  I  still  understood  that  her  intention 
was  to  cure  me.  But  how?  What  could  she  say 
that  would  alter  my  desire?  Nothing!  I  had  her 
promise,  and  I  would  hold  her  to  it.  I  wandered 
on,  half  dazed  with  joy.  My  pulses  quivered  with 
suspense. 

The  impression  of  that  interval  is  with  me  now. 


1 82  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

The  sun  had  set,  but  dusk  had  not  yet  fallen,  and 
the  golden  domes  and  turrets  of  the  Printemps  rose 
gorgeously  into  an  opal  sky.  Paris  stretched  around 
me  clear  and  mauve — the  brightness  faded,  but  the 
light  not  gone,  the  trees  deepening  to  purple,  the 
electric  lamps  shining  vividly  in  the  reflections  of  the 
dying  day.  On  the  boulevards  it  was  the  hour  of 
vermouth  and  absinthe,  and  itinerant  vendors  of 
views  and  toys  stopped  at  the  little  tables  every  min- 
ute to  display  their  wares.  A  constant  stream  of 
pedestrians  flowed  by  the  cafes;  now  and  again  a 
woman  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  one  of  the  occu- 
pants of  the  chairs.  The  guttural  cry  of  "La  Presse 
— La  Presse!''  was  everywhere.  Artists  and  mendi- 
cants, club-men  and  cocottes,  poured  past  me  inces- 
santly. I  saw  without  knowing  that  I  saw,  heeded 
without  being  conscious  of  any  attention.  I  had 
reached  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  and  sat  there  motion- 
less, waiting  for  the  high  clock  to  my  left  to  show  me 
it  was  time  to  dress. 

I  mounted  to  the  flat  as  my  watch  pointed  to 
seven,  and  was  obliged  to  ring  twice.  I  was  admit- 
ted by  Geraldine's  maid — an  old  woman  whom  I  had 
often  wondered  she  retained. 

"I  am  sorry  you  should  have  been  kept  waiting, 
sir,"  she  said;  "I  was  with  Miss  Azulay,  and  the 
other  servants  are  all  out." 

"Oh!"  I  answered.    "What  has  happened?" 


THE   BODY  AND    SOUL   OF   MISS   AZULAY      183 

"They  are  out  by  Miss  Azulay's  orders,  sir.  / 
am  to  wait  at  table  to-night." 

It  sounded  rather  odd,  but  I  refrained  from  any 
further  question.  I  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
was  told  that  my  hostess  would  be  with  me  directly. 
Apparently  the  "companion"  was  out  also,  for  five — 
ten — minutes  passed  while  I  was  alone. 

It  was  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  door 
was  opened  softly,  and  Miss  Azulay  came  in.  Her 
entrance  had  been  so  quiet  that  I  was  unaware  of 
it  till  she  spoke.  Then  I  looked  up,  and  saw  her 
standing  on  the  threshold.  As  I  write,  the  ghastli- 
ness  of  the  moment  returns  to  me;  I  feel  the  shudder 
in  my  veins  again,  just  as  I  felt  it  while  I  looked! 
She  was  in  evening  toilette;  the  satin  trailed  the  floor, 
and  jewels  glittered  in  her  gown.  Her  arms  and 
bosom  were  bare,  and  I  saw  that  she  was I  can- 
not say  it;  I  cannot  put  the  word!  From  her  neck 
down!  Oh,  God  help  her!  only  her  beautiful  face 
had  escaped!  I  remained  voiceless,  frozen  with  hor- 
ror. If  I  lived  to  be  a  thousand,  I  should  never 
forget  the  awfulness  of  that  silence,  as  we  stared  at 
each  other  with  distended  eyes  across  the  room;  I 
should  never  forget  the  spectacle  of  the  tortured  face 
lifted  to  me  from  a  body  from  which  her  mind  and 
soul  appeared  to  shrink. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  at  last. 

"I  wrote  you  I  was  too   strange  a  mixture  to 


184  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

marry,"  she  said,  harshly.  "Now  you  understand 
me!" 

I  could  not  answer;  my  tongue  would  not  move. 

"Don't  look  at  me  for  a  moment,"  she  continued; 
"give  me  time  to  compose  myself.  I  have  done 
for  you  what  I  have  done  for  no  one  else  in  the 
world!" 

She  turned  her  back  on  me,  and  I  heard  her  sob. 

"Geraldine !"  I  cried. 

"Sh!  I  am  all  right  again  now.  I  don't  mean 
to  break  down — don't  fear.  I  am  a  strong  woman ; 
I  have  need  to  be !  Come,  I  am  quite  steady.  There 
is  brandy  there — you  had  better  take  some." 

"Speak  to  me,"  I  stammered.  "Tell  me  what  it 
means." 

"I  was  born  so,"  she  said,  "that's  all.  Don't  you 
remember  my  letter?  My  mother  did  not  know; 
she  was  spared  the  sight.  /  did  not  know,  either, 
till  I  was  nearly  ten;  they  kept  it  from  me  as  long 
as  possible.  I  actually  thought  that  all  children  were 
the  same.  I  recollect  my  agony  of  shame  when  I 
found  out!  I  loathed  the  sight  of  myself;  I  was 
frightened  at  my  own  limbs,  and  used  to  fall  into 
fits  of  terror  in  the  bed." 

"You  poor  girl!" 

"Don't  pity  me,  or  I  shall  cry.  Ah,  dinner  is 
ready — let  us  go  in." 

The  maid  had  announced  it.  We  went  into  the 
other  room,  and  made  a  pretence  of  eating.  Mer- 


THE   BODY   AND   SOUL   OF   MISS   AZULAY      185 

cifully,  the  meal  was  a  short  one,  and  we  were  soon 
left  at  the  table  alone. 

"I  promised  you  I  would  cure  you,"  said  Miss 
Azulay,  "and  you'll  admit  I've  kept  my  word.  No, 
don't  speak;  I  know  all  you  would  say!  And  please 
don't  think  for  an  instant  that  I'm  wounded,  dear! 
If  you  had  wanted  to  marry  me  still,  you  would 
have  embarrassed  me  very  much,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  for  I  am  not  fond  of  you  in  that  way  a  little 
bit.  But  I  am  very,  very,'  very  fond  of  you  in  an- 
other way,  and  I  felt  I  would  rather  humiliate  myself 
as  I  have  than  let  you  go  on  suffering,  when  I  could 
stop  it  so  easily."  She  hesitated  a  second,  and  then 
touched  me  gently  with  her  black  hand.  "You'll 
never  tell  anyone  while  I  live?" 

"Oh,  by  Heaven !"  I  exclaimed. 

"That's  enough;  I'm  sure  you  won't!  No  one 
suspects,  you  know — you  didn't  suspect  yourself — I 
manage  to  prevent  that!  'Poor  Miss  Azulay' — 
that's  how  you'll  think  of  me  in  future,  eh?  'Poor 
Miss  Azulay' !" 

"Have  you  never — never  cared  for  anybody  at 
all?" 

"Never.  Thank  Heaven,  never!  That  used  to 
be  my  fear  when  I  was  a  girl;  I  used  to  be  afraid 
I  might!  It  isn't  likely  to  happen  now;  the  danger 
is  almost  past.  But  if  I  ever  did" — her  chin  dropped 
upon  her  palms,  and  she  gazed  through  me  into 


1 86  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

futurity — "if  I  ever  did,  do  you  know  what  I  have 
always  determined  to  do  ?" 

I  watched  her  as  she  paused. 

"I've  determined  to  do  what  I  have  done  with 
you  to-night;  I  should  let  him  see  what  I  am  with 
his  own  eyes.  And  if  he  wanted  to  marry  me  then 
— if  he  did,  if  he  could ! — I  would  be  his  wife.  And 
...  I  would  worship  that  man !  I  would  give  him 

such  a  love  as  no  man  has  ever  known !  I  would 

Oh,"  she  broke  off,  "please  God  I  shall  never  have 
to  make  the  trial  1  I  pray  I  shan't,  because  .  .  . 
because  I  know  so  well  how  he'd  look — I  saw  the 
look  on  you — and  the  ordeal  would  kill  me.  Only 
...  if  ever  you  should  hear  of  Miss  Azulay's  mar- 
rying, my  friend,  you  will  understand  that  there  is 
a  wonderful  creature  in  the  world — a  man  who  fell 
in  love  with  a  woman's  mind,  and  not  her  body! 
You  will  remember  my  determination,  and  know  that 
when  I  fulfilled  it,  a  man  was  still  capable  of  taking 
me  in  his  arms.  Ah,  that  isn't  a  reproach — I  wish 
I  hadn't  said  it;  go  away  from  me!  There,  give 
me  your  hand,  if  you  will,  and  say  'good  night'  and 
'good-bye.'  It  is  late." 

"You  are  leaving  Paris?" 

"To-morrow.     For  London." 

"And  when  shall  I  see  you  again?  I  may  see  you 
again?" 

"Some  day !    This  evening  will  last  you  for  a  long 


THE   BODY   AND   SOUL   OF   MISS   AZULAY      1 87 

while."     She  smiled  sadly.      "Now  go — go,"  she 
repeated.     "Adieu !" 

I  did  not  see  her  again,  though  shortly  afterwards 
I  returned  to  London  myself.  The  world  is  small, 
but  London  is  very  large,  and  Miss  Azulay  and  I 
did  not  meet.  Nearly  five  years  passed  before  I 
heard  of  her  indeed,  and  when  I  did  so,  it  was, 
strangely  enough,  in  New  York,  where  I  had  been 
obliged  to  go  on  business.  I  was  glancing  at  a  news^ 
paper  in  Dorlon's,  one  night,  and  I  dropped  it,  sick 
and  faint.  The  paragraph  ran: — 

"SEQUEL  TO  AN  ELOPEMENT. — Miss  Geraldine 
Azulay — an  Englishwoman  here — concluded  to  con- 
sole Colonel  Arkas  Doyle  for  his  failure  to  obtain 
a  divorce.  This  is  the  lady  it  was  whispered  the 
petitioner  proposed  to  marry,  if  the  law  would  free 
him  from  the  degraded  virago  who  bears  his  name. 
Now  it  appears  that  Miss  Azulay  was  not  disposed 
to  let  her  own  and  her  lover's  life  be  marred  by  the 
law's  refusal.  She  promised  to  live  with  the  Colonel 
as  his  wife,  and  it  transpires  that  the  pair  left  New 
York  City  yesterday  for  the  Falls'  Hotel,  Buffalo, 
where  they  were  taken  by  the  hotel-clerk  for  the 
conventional  bride  and  bridegroom.  At  an  early 
hour  this  morning  the  lady  committed  suicide  by  poi- 
son. She  was  discovered  on  a  couch  in  the  dressing- 
room,  quite  dead,  with  an  empty  phial  in  her  hand. 
It  can  only  be  supposed  that  her  sacrifice  was  no 


1 88  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

sooner  made  than  she  repented  of  it,  and,  distracted 
by  remorse,  destroyed  herself.  Evidently  the  first 
intention  of  the  unhappy  woman  had  been  to  fly 
from  the  man  for  whose  sake  she  had  renounced 
so  much,  for  she  had  carefully  attired  herself  in  her 
travelling-costume,  and  was  wearing  gloves." 

But  I  knew  better!  1  understood  Miss  Azulay 
had  loved  at  last,  and  that  her  courage  had  failed 
her  until  it  was  too  late. 


IN    RERUM    NATURA 

"You  have  done  me  the  honour,  my  good  friend, 
to  ask  me  to  be  your  wife.  You  reminded  me  that 
I  am  still  a  young  woman,  and  urged  that  my  widow- 
hood— a  solitary  state  without  children — has  already 
exceeded  the  longest  limit  that  Society  or  sentiment 
can  require.  I  answered  you,  'What  you  wish  is 
impossible.'  I  told  you  something  else;  I  said,  'The 
woman  you  revere  is  worthy  neither  of  your  love 
nor  your  respect,  for  she  is  a  coward!'  In  your 
turn,  you  replied,  'It  is  impossible.'  But  it  is  true  1 
And  now  that  you  are  gone,  and  I  am  sitting  here 
alone,  having  broken  my  engagements  for  the  eve- 
ning, and  seeking  no  other  companions  than  the 
pictures  in  the  fire,  something  prompts  me  to  explain 
to  you  the  words  I  used — to  bare  my  heart  for  your 
examination  (perhaps  also  for  your  pity),  and  to 
show  to  you  how  constant,  and  yet  contemptible,  a 
soul  may  be. 

"On  the  table  where  I  write,  the  servant  has  just 
placed  a  pyramid  of  hyacinths.  Somebody  has  sent 
them  to  me,  I  do  not  know  who;  but  the  perfume 
fills  the  room;  and  Balzac  spoke  truly  when  he  said 
that  perfume  reminds  one  more  vividly  than  words. 

189 


THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

The  scent  of  the  flowers  is  associated  in  my  mind 
with  the  delights  of  my  youth:  the  spring  when  I 
was  a  girl  of  seventeen,  and  wore  muslin  frocks,  and 
went  out  in  the  woods,  needing  no  other  cosmetique 
than  my  blushes,  to  walk  with  my  lover — the  hus- 
band you  ask  me  to  forget. 

"I  am  no  longer  alone  save  for  the  fire!  The 
past  is  with  me  as  I  inhale  the  odour  of  the  hya- 
cinths; and  Lucien  has  come  back,  out  of  his  grave, 
to  reproach  me  with  his  eyes  where  you  told  me  of 
your  love  this  afternoon. 

"Let  me  arrange  my  thoughts,  and  accuse  myself 
with  proper  method. 

"I  lived  in  a  quiet  corner  of  Brittany,  with  the 
aunt  who  recently  bequeathed  me  the  fortune  I  pos- 
sess. Our  menage  was  of  the  simplest;  for,  though 
my  relative  was  a  wealthy  woman,  her  tastes  made 
small  demand  on  her  resources,  and,  so  far  from 
seeking  to  outshine  the  community  which  formed  our 
world,  she  praised,  and  even  imitated,  its  economies. 

"In  looking  back,  the  life  I  led  appears  to  me 
most  frightfully  dull  until  one  May.  In  that  month 
there  descended  upon  us  a  young  artist.  He  had 
come  to  the  place  to  sketch,  and  had  brought  a  let- 
ter of  introduction  to  a  neighbour  of  ours,  which 
— oddly  enough,  as  he  told  me  afterwards — he  had 
presented.  'For,  as  a  rule,'  said  he,  'I  never  present 
such  things,  they  are  a  source  of  equal  annoyance 
to  oneself  and  the  person  to  whom  one  is  recom- 


IN   RERUM   NATURA  19 1 

mended.  But  one  must  accept  them  in  gratitude  for 
the  kindness  by  which  the  stupidity  is  prompted.' 

"The  neighbour  to  whom  he  had  been  introduced 
was  a  valued  friend  of  my  aunt's,  and  at  an  'evening' 
shortly  after  his  arrival — an  evening  of  syrup-and- 
water  and  sugared  cakes — we  met. 

"I  shall  not  detail  the  history  of  our  acquaintance, 
nor  will  I  declare  that,  fondly  as  I  loved  him  later, 
I  left  the  house  that  night  with  any  more  serious 
feeling  than  the  sensation  of  novel  pleasure  which 
the  admiration  of  a  talented  and  handsome  man 
would  naturally  awaken  in  the  breast  of  a  girl  reared 
in  such  seclusion  as  I  had  been.  Women,  moreover, 
fall  in  love — that  odious  phrase — far  less  frequently 
at  first  sight  than  men.  For  in  woman,  love  is 
primarily  intellectual,  and  is  born  of  knowledge; 
whereas  in  man,  I  think,  it  is  born  in  the  senses,  and 
reaches  the  mind  last.  No,  I  will  not  weary  you 
with  the  chronicle  of  our  courtship;  I  will  only  say 
that  a  sympathy  spring  into  life  between  us  so  strong 
that  one  afternoon — the  day  before  he  was  to  return 
to  Paris — he  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. 

"We  were  standing  before  the  easel,  where  he  had 
been  painting — in  the  wood  adjacent  to  our  home. 
Nevertheless,  the  picture  on  the  canvas  was  not  a 
landscape,  but  a  portrait  of  the  girl  I  used  to  be. 

"  'It  is  finished,'  he  said,  putting  the  brush  aside, 
'and  I  am  going  away.'  And  then  he  asked  me  was 
I  sorry. 


192  THIS    STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"I  cannot  recall  my  answer.  How  is  it  that  the 
words  of  others  live  in  the  memory  so  long  after 
one's  own  have  faded?  I  cannot  recall  my  answer, 
but  I  remember  the  next  thing  he  said  as  if  it  hap- 
pened yesterday.  I  remember  how  we  walked  back 
together  into  the  presence  of  my  aunt.  And  I  re- 
member the  sunshine  touched  her  face  and  smile 
through  the  window  as  she  turned  at  our  approach, 
and  watched  us — curiously,  it  almost  seemed — near- 
ing  her  along  the  path. 

"The  scent  of  the  hyacinths  is  very  powerful ;  the 
room  has  grown  oppressive.  Wait,  my  friend,  till  I 
have  breathed  some  air. 

"We  were  betrothed  for  five  years.  I  have  told 
you  that  Lucien  was  young,  and  a  painter;  to  add 
that  he  was  poor  would  be  a  pleonasm;  and  his  pride 
revolted  at  the  notion  of  owing  everything  to  my 
aunt.  It  is  the  custom  to  condemn  these  long  engage- 
ments, but  ours,  I  am  certain,  made  fruition  sweeter. 
During  the  waiting  we  had  learnt  to  know  each 
other  so  completely  that  when  we  wedded  we  made 
no  adventure — we  merely  fulfilled  our  dreams;  it 
was  not  an  experiment,  our  marriage,  but  a  realisa- 
tion. Never  did  a  woman  love  more  passionately 
than  I;  never  was  a  woman  given  more  absolute 
devotion  in  return.  He  told  me  everything — his 
hopes,  his  moods,  every  incident  of  his  past.  I  read 
his  favourite  books,  that  he  might  have  no  experi- 


IN   RERUM   NATURA  1 93 

ences  I  did  not  share.  Often  he  would  reply  to  a 
thought  I  had  not  spoken.  You  ask  me  my  ideal 
of  perfect  happiness?  I  answer,  'My  life  with 
Lucien.' 

"We  had  gone  to  Venice,  and  were  working  there. 
I  say  we  were  working,  and  I  must  have  explained 
our  union  very  poorly  if  the  phrase  seems  bad  to  you. 
I  was  his  comrade,  his  critic,  his  inspiration!  It 
was  when  we  had  been  in  Venice  six  months  that  I 
fell  ill.  That  it  was  serious  I  did  not  at  first  suspect, 
but  it  soon  became  apparent  that  I  had  contracted 
typhoid  fever.  Lucien's  anxiety  was  pitiful  to  see: 
he  beseeched  the  doctor  for  encouragement  that  he 
could  not  give;  he  upbraided  himself  for  bringing 
me  there ;  he  would  sit  beside  me  day  and  night,  his 
eyes  haggard  with  despair. 

"Of  much  that  occurred  at  this  time  I  am  neces- 
sarily ignorant;  but  one  evening  I  came  back  out  of 
delirium  to  understand  that  I  could  not  live. 

"The  room  was  in  shadow;  the  one  bright  spot 
a  disc  of  light  upon  the  ceiling,  thrown  upward  by 
the  lamp.  Presently  I  became  aware  that  Lucien 
was  with  me,  and  that  he  was  crying.  I  do  not  know 
if  it  was  then  that  I  understood  I  was  dying,  or  if 
I  had  heard  it  earlier  in  the  day.  But  I  recollect 
that  he  took  my  hand  and  sobbed  over  it;  and  feebly 
— because  my  voice  was  weak  and  my  wits  still  wan- 
dered— I  strove  to  comfort  him. 

"The  last  vestige  of  his  self-control  deserted  him 


194  THIS   STAGE    OF   FOOLS 

at  this,  and  his  arm  crept  beneath  my  head  and  neck, 
and  he  prayed  that  I  might  be  spared  to  him; 
pleaded  to  die  himself  if  he  must  lose  me. 

"I  remember  dimly  saying  to  him  once,  'How 
long?'  meaning  how  long  was  it  to  be  before  the 
end  came;  and  next  it  was  borne  upon  me  that  I 
could  only  expect  to  live  about  an  hour. 

"Lucien's  face  was  white  and  working;  he  must 
have  been  distraught,  or  he  would  not  have  done 
what  he  did.  I  had  been  given  morphia  through  the 
fever,  and  a  phial  of  it  stood  upon  the  shelf.  I  heard 
him  murmuring  that  we  would  not  separate ;  that  we 
would  go  together  into  the  unknown  as  we  had  lived 
together  in  the  world.  I  said  to  him — everything 
was  confused  to  me — I  said  to  him,  'What  is  it  you 
say,  Lucien?  I  cannot  hear.'  He  answered,  'I  am 
going  with  you,  Beloved;  we  will  enter  the  new  life 
at  the  same  time !' 

"He  came  and  cast  himself  beside  me  on  the  bed. 
When  he  kissed  me  I  could  smell  the  morphia  in  his 
breath.  We  rested  beside  each  other  on  the  same 
pillow,  and  I  lay  in  silence,  watching  the  lamplight 
quivering  overhead.  From  time  to  time  he  pressed 
me  to  him,  and  we  kissed  again.  The  patch  of 
light  above  me  took  queer,  fantastic  shapes.  I  felt 
drowsy,  and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  sounded  far- 
ther off.  'We  are  going  together — what  will  it  be 
like?'  he  said.  I  wanted  to  reply  to  him,  but  I  was 
very  tired; — and  the  light  on  the  ceiling  went  out. 


IN   RERUM    NATURA  195 

"When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  in  another  room, 
and  I  asked  for  him  to  be  brought  to  me.  They 
said  he  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  city,  but  that 
he  would  return  in  a  few  days.  They  added  that  the 
crisis  of  my  illness  had  been  miraculously  passed  just 
when  I  was  despaired  of,  and  told  me  I  was  getting 
well. 

"I  listened  to  them — and  remembered. 

"Later  in  the  day  I  was  left  alone,  and  I  heard 
strange  noises  in  the  house.  I  raised  myself  in  bed, 
and,  through  the  window,  I  saw  Lucien's  coffin  being 
carried  down  the  steps.  It  was  my  welcome  back 
to  health! 

"You  may  marvel  that  it  did  not  kill  me;  /  have 
marvelled,  too.  But  it  did  not;  and  you  know  now 
why  I  shall  never  re-marry.  In  the  irony  of  fate, 
Lucien  made  the  Great  Journey  before  myself,  and 
I  felt  that  ever  since  he  has  been  waiting  for  me.  I 
like  to  think,  also,  that  to  him,  whose  standard  of 
comparison  is  the  Eternal,  the  intervening  years  may 
seem  more  paltry  than  they  do  to  me. 

"Why,  if  I  find  the  delay  so  weary,  have  I  not 
done  the  thing  that  he  did,  and  gone  to  him  before? 
Let  me  whisper:  Because  I  have  not  the  courage; 
because  /  am  afraid!  Yes,  I  will  be  candid  if  it 
shames  me.  It  is  no  scruple  of  religion  which  keeps 
me  back;  twice  I  have  held  the  means  in  my  hand — 
and  I  was  afraid! 

"There  is  something  else,  for  my  confession  shall 


196  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

be  complete.  On  such  a  day  as  this  was,  when  the 
air  is  mild,  and  the  people  in  the  streets  look  happy, 
and  the  trees,  as  I  take  my  drive,  are  fresh  and 
green,  I  sometimes  feel  that  it  is  pleasanter  to  live. 
The  world  wears  its  gayest  frock  to  me,  and  I  am 
content.  He  died  to  die  with  me — and  I  am  'con- 
tent.' It  is  well  said! 

"The  oppression  of  these  hyacinths  is  stifling  me — 
Goodnight!" 


A   MERE   INCIDENT 

HE  wished  it  had  been  issued  at  another  price.  He 
wished  it  from  the  moment  the  specimen  cover  was 
submitted  to  him  for  approval,  with  "One  Shilling" 
in  aggressive  capitals  at  the  top;  he  wished  it  still 
more  when  the  familiar  title  began  to  greet  him  from 
the  railway  bookstalls;  and,  most  of  all,  he  wished  it 
when  his  prophetic  dread  was  realised  by  the  first 
reviewer,  and  a  weekly  journal  appeared  with  half 
a  dozen  commendatory  lines  on  Walter  Cunning- 
hame's  "Shilling  Shocker." 

If  it  had  been  eleven-pence,  he  contended,  or  even 
one-and-a-penny,  that  hideous,  mal-a-propos  designa- 
tion would  have  been  impossible;  but  his  publishers 
had  smiled  the  objection  to  scorn,  and,  innocent  of 
a  "murder,"  a  "mystery,"  or  a  "mesmeric  attrac- 
tion," Mr.  Cunninghame  had  involuntarily  perpe- 
trated a  shilling  shocker,  and  must  abide  the  conse- 
quences. 

Now,  amongst  the  multifarious  circumstances  un- 
der which  it  is  unwise  to  yield  to  the  particular  form 
of  vanity  that  lures  a  man  into  endeavouring  to  make 
his  mark  as  a  writer  of  novels  in  London,  may  be 

197 


198  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

accounted  the  condition  when  necessity  ordains  that 
his  existence  shall  be  devoted  to  totally  different  pur- 
suits in  the  region  of  Bombay.  Yet  this  is  what  the 
author  of  "The  Memoirs  of  Mona  Leigh"  had  done 
precisely.  Six  months  ago  nothing  could  have  been 
further  from  his  thoughts ;  six  months  ago  he  would 
have  told  you  he  had  given  up  "scribbling"  with 
his  teens;  that  he  was  going  back  to  England  to 
see  his  people  and  enjoy  himself — well,  then,  pri- 
marily to  enjoy  himself,  if  you  would  be  so  accurate 
— adding,  very  probably,  that  twelve  years  in  India 
made  a  considerable  alteration  in  the  ideas  of  most 
persons,  and  in  his  case  had  left  him  with  no  especial 
illusions  that  he  could  contrive  to  recollect  on  any 
subject  under  the  sun. 

Cynicism  is  popularly  supposed  to  result  from 
one's  experience  of  an  overrated  world;  it  might  be 
more  justly  attributed  to  disappointment  at  the  unful- 
filled ambitions  of  one's  own  youth ;  and  Walter  Cun- 
ninghame's  philosophy  failed  him  directly  at  the  test 
of  old  surroundings.  In  London  he  had  dreamed 
as  a  boy;  in  London  he  wrote  again  as  a  man;  list- 
lessly at  first,  impelled  by  a  sudden  whim,  in  his 
rooms,  one  evening,  with  a  pipe  between  his  lips  and 
a  pocket-book  upon  his  knee ;  and  then  fiercely,  dog- 
gedly, rising  early  and  working  late,  while  the  pile 
of  manuscript  waxed  bulkier  beside  his  desk,  and 
folk,  commenting  on  his  unsociability,  oracularly  ob- 
served, "It  was  a  pity  Cunninghame  had  not  married 


A   MERE    INCIDENT  199 

out  there,  for  he  had  come  home  every  whit  as  eccen- 
tric as  when  he  left." 

The  form  of  composition  to  which  he  set  himself 
was  the  diary  of  a  woman.  He  put  into  it  his  heart 
and  his  brains.  If  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  definition  of 
Genius  had  been  complete,  this  novel  should  have 
startled  civilisation;  as  it  was,  it  did  nothing  of  the 
kind.  He  received  a  cheque  in  remuneration  suffi- 
cient to  keep  him  in  cab-fares  and  cigars  for  the 
remainder  of  his  visit,  and  his  acquaintances  in- 
formed him  it  was  "very  nice."  "Very  nice!"  ex- 
claimed his  friends.  "An  agreeable  little  story  to 
pass  away  an  idle  hour!"  declared  the  critics.  "I 
raced  through  it  at  a  sitting,"  he  was  assured  by 
the  most  fervid  of  his  admirers,  "I  was  so  anxious 
to  discover  the  end."  And  Mr.  Cunninghame,  bow- 
ing his  acknowledgments  the  while,  thought  bitterly, 
"Let  me  get  back  to  India  and  the  counting-house, 
for  if  this  be  all  the  effect  my  deliberation  can  pro- 
duce, God  help  me,  I  shall  never  make  an  author!" 
It  is  unfortunate  for  your  chances  of  contentment 
when  you  have  expected  the  public  to  read  your 
novel  as  you  write  it. 

After  all,  cm  bono?  He  had  been  living  within 
his  pages  from  the  outset,  waiting  occasionally  a 
morning,  a  day,  for  the  word  which,  of  all  others, 
could  he  grasp  it,  would  convey  his  intention  most 
exactly.  Springing  from  the  bed,  he  had  sought, 
exhausted,  to  correct  some  line  that  failed  to  give 


200  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

him  satisfaction,  to  substitute  an  expression  more 
felicitous.  He  had  been  by  turns  tender  and  satiri- 
cal; he  had  revised  and  repolished;  he  had  done  the 
utmost  of  which  he  was  capable,  and  he  had  learnt 
the  result  was  "very  nice."  Cm  bono?  he  mused, 
for  the  twentieth  time  this  afternoon,  where  he  lay 
back  in  the  compartment  of  the  express  that  was 
bearing  him  northward  to  Birkenhead;  he  had  writ- 
ten a  "Shilling  Shocker,"  and  now  he  was  going  out 
to  India  and  commerce,  once  more;  and  all  the 
unhinted  hopes  that  had  sustained  him  were  over, 
ended  like He  paused  in  the  midst  of  his  medi- 
tation for  a  simile,  grimly  watching  the  tiny  wreath 
of  blue  circling  from  his  cigar  point;  "aptly  enough, 
like  this,  in  smoke,"  he  concluded,  tossing  the  stump 
through  the  window  with  an  impatient  gesture;  it 
had  been  one  of  the  last  box  his  achievement  had 
procured  him. 

Birkenhead  is  not  calculated  to  exhilarate  the  unac- 
customed visitor  all  at  once.  The  roar  of  Liverpool 
does  not  penetrate  here;  not  a  hum  from  the  great 
city  on  the  opposite  bank  floats  across  the  river  to 
disturb  the  all-pervading  silence  of  the  lesser  town, 
which  has  long  since  assumed  an  air  of  fixed  depres- 
sion, deprecating  geography,  as  though  abased  by 
the  comparison  it  provokes.  And  when  he  had  dis- 
missed the  notion  of  crossing  by  ferry  as  too  much 
bother,  and  purposely  lingered  over  a  very  creditable 
meal  at  the  hotel  where  he  engaged  an  apartment  for 


A   MERE    INCIDENT  2OI 

the  night,  Mr.  Cunninghame  was  sorely  puzzled 
what  to  do  with  himself. 

There  was  a  theatre,  he  ascertained,  which  would 
open  some  hours  later  for  the  performance  of  a  met- 
ropolitan success  by  a  touring  company,  and  there 
was  a  park — the  latter  Birkenhead's  feature  par  ex- 
cellence. Perhaps  it  was  natural  in  a  man  whose 
home  for  an  indefinite  period  was  likely  to  be  Bom- 
bay, that  he  should  bend  his  steps  in  the  direction 
of  the  woodland,  glad  that  his  farewell  glimpse  of 
England,  albeit  taken  in  an  unfamiliar  place,  should 
include  a  thoroughly  English  scene. 

It  was  very  pleasant  under  the  trees  beside  the 
water  in  the  autumn  sunshine;  so  pleasant,  and  withal 
so  quiet,  that  he  decided  he  alone  must  have  selected 
the  resort,  as,  after  skirting  the  best  part  of  two  hun- 
dred acres  in  a  ramble,  he  sank  abruptly  upon  a 
bench,  remembering  he  had  encountered  no  living 
creature  but  a  dog.  The  spot  in  which  he  found  him- 
self was  screened  from  the  broader  walk  by  a  clump 
of  beeches;  fronting  him  was  a  kind  of  hollow  where 
the  stream  resolved  itself  into  an  irregular  basin 
fringed  by  shrubs.  He  allowed  his  eyes  to  rest  for 
an  instant  on  the  view  in  perfect  satisfaction;  then 
his  gaze,  wandering,  took  in  a  nearer  object,  and  he 
became  sensible  of  a  paper-covered  novel  lying  at  the 
extremity  of  the  seat.  He  was  very  fresh  at  Liter- 
ature, and  he  said  "By  Jove !"  It  was  his  own 
book. 


2O2  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

He  picked  it  up,  opening  it  haphazard  at  the  sev- 
enth page.  There  was  a  marginal  note  appended  to 
some  sarcastic  reflection  upon  friendship  he  had 
deemed  clever.  He  started  slightly  as  he  observed 
it;  the  remark  was,  "Nasty  sentiment!" 

In  bold,  erect,  feminine  chirography,  this  philos- 
ophaster's  conceit  was  condemned  as  a  "nasty  senti- 
ment," and  he  smiled.  The  censure  gratified  him; 
he  was  flattered  to  perceive  that  by  one  person,  at 
least,  his  composition  had  been  considered,  and  not 
skimmed.  On  page  thirty  the  pencil  had  been  em- 
ployed again: — 

"Are  you  a  cynic  or  a  fatalist,  Mona  Leigh?  I 
cannot  say;  I  ask  myself  if  I  like  you,  and  I  answer 
no,  'no,'  a  hundred  times.  Brilliant,  unscrupulous, 
I  am  alive  to  your  abilities,  but  I  would  not  shake 
hands  with  you !" 

Here  was  the  analysis  with  a  vengeance!  Who 
was  this  reader  who  declined  to  shake  hands  with 
his  heroine,  and  called  her  "unscrupulous"?  Pres- 
ently he  discovered  a  retraction,  a  pretty  apology: 
a  paragraph  that  had  delighted  him  in  the  manu- 
script was  marked;  everywhere  his  favourite  sen- 
tences had  been  annotated — those  sentences  which  he 
had  vainly  hoped  would  attract  attention  of  the 
professional  reviewers.  At  the  end  of  his  "Dream 
Chapter"  was  written — 

"A  dream  at  once  repulsive  and  beautiful,  because 


A    MERE    INCIDENT  203 

so  wholly  typical  of  finite  humanity  and  God's  infinite 
power!" 

He  let  the  volume  drop  upon  his  knees,  and  fell 
to  speculating  on  the  personality  of  his  commentator. 
Then  he  raised  it  again,  hesitated,  and  hurriedly 
referred  to  the  final  sheet.  It  was  only  a  line  of 
seven  words  that  he  was  seeking,  but  it  was  his  pet 
passage,  and  it  had  escaped  all  notice  by  the  "fervid 
admirers";  it  was  doubly  underscored  1  Beneath  it 
the  reader  had  added — 

"Dear  little  story,  I  am  sorry  to  finish  you;  you 
have  given  me  pleasure !" 

Well,  she  dabbled  in  letters  herself,  and  she  was 
young;  it  demanded  no  exceptional  discernment  to 
guess  that!  It  was  evidenced  by  the  exalted  tone 
of  the  rough  jottings.  He  wondered  merely  who 
she  was,  and  how  it  happened  she  had  forgotten 
the  book  she  had  been  at  so  much  pains  to  show 
belonged  to  her.  Possibly  she  might  still  be  close 
by,  he  mused,  and  would  be  returning.  As  the  notion 
occurred  to  him  he  looked  round,  but  a  moment  too 
late;  for — even  as  he  turned,  her  property  retained 
in  his  clasp — he  met  her  glance. 

She  had  come  across  the  grass,  between  the  lich- 
ened  trunks  that  formed  a  background  to  her  where 
she  paused;  her  brown  hair,  curly,  not  in  curls,  hung 
untrammelled  about  her  shoulders;  she  wore  nun's 
veiling,  the  palest  of  pale  pinks,  and  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  of  straw  trimmed  with  a  spray  of  ivy. 


204  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

She  might  have  been  a  dryad  attired  by  a  nineteenth- 
century  milliner;  and  she  was  unmistakably  but  sev- 
enteen years  old. 

As  he  saw  her  he  was  conscious  of  three  distinct 
sensations.  The  order  was  manlike:  the  first,  an 
appreciation  of  her  loveliness ;  the  second,  a  resentful 
astonishment  at  her  youth;  and  the  last  (because  the 
bulk  of  her  comments  had  been  panegyric),  a  pro- 
found respect  for  her  faculties  of  discrimination. 

"This  is  yours,  I  suppose?  I  am  afraid  I  have 
been  taking  a  liberty,  but  I  believed  it  ownerless !" 

Her  manners  were  hopelessly  behind  the  Bays- 
water-Clapham-West-Central  standard  of  British 
young-ladydom  (or  else  she  had  been  educated  above 
it),  for  she  said  "Thank  you"  without  having  been 
introduced.  Worse,  this  audacious  little  person  in 
nun's  veiling  further  exclaimed,  "Oh,  my  gloves!" 
and  repeated  the  egregious  impropriety  of  acknowl- 
edging a  stranger's  civility  when  he  found  them. 

They  had  fallen  under  the  bench,  and,  groping 
on  the  gravel,  Mr.  Cunninghame  also  cast  about  for 
some  method  of  detaining  her. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  think  I  have  been  guilty  of  a 
very  awful  offence,"  he  questioned  gravely;  "the  law 
would  tell  me  I  should  have  explored  for  a  police- 
man." Presuming  his  object  had  been  to  make  her 
laugh,  it  failed.  She  replied — 

"Pray  don't  name  it,     I  have  been  wandering 


A   MERE   INCIDENT  205 

about  as  if  the  park  were  my  private  garden.  Good 
afternoon!" 

"And  my  attentions  to  your  book  are  sufficiently 
explained?" 

"There  is  no  need  for  any  explanation  at  all;  it 
would  have  been  my  own  fault  if  my  book  had  been 
lost;  good  day." 

He  could  see  but  one  means  open  to  attain  his 
end. 

"Because,"  he  said,  suddenly,  and  he  looked  her 
straight  in  the  eyes  as  he  spoke,  "there  is  another 
excuse  I  should  like  to  offer — I  wrote  it!" 

He  had  startled  her  out  of  her  composure  now. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  little  foreign  gesture 
of  consternation. 

"You  wrote  it?"  she  cried,  piteously.  The  blood 
flamed  into  her  cheeks  and  brow,  dyeing  them  crim- 
son; there  were  both  wonder  and  incredulity  in  her 
voice. 

"Permit  me !"  He  felt  in  his  note-case,  producing 
a  card,  on  which  was  engraved,  "Mr.  Walter  Cun- 
ninghame,  i,  Victoria  Mansions,"  and  gave  it  to  her 
with  a  bow.  "You  see,  I  am  no  impostor,"  he  con- 
tinued, quietly;  "I  may  really  claim  to  be  the  creator 
of  the  'nasty  sentiment.'  ' 

"You  wrote  it?"  she  reiterated;  "you  wrote  it? 
Oh,  what  must  you  think  of  me  I" 

"Don't  you  understand?"  he  said;  "you  have  paid 
the  greatest  compliment  a  reader  can  pay  to  a  'shil- 


206  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

ling  shocker';  you  have  searched  for  more  than  a 
sensation  and  a  plot!" 

The  blush  faded  from  her  face,  and  she  smiled. 
He  observed  how  very  short  her  upper  lip  was,  and 
that  the  teeth  below  were  particularly  small  and 
regular. 

"Then  you  are  not  angry?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"Angry!     You  have  made  me  very  proud!" 

"I  dare  say  if  I  hadn't,  you  would  not  have  told 
me  you  were  the  author?" 

"More  than  probable;  I  should  have  preserved  as 
rigid  a  silence  on  the  subject  of  my  literary  flights  as 
you  would  have  done  about  yours !" 

"About  mine!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  you  write  yourself;  'not  necessarily  for 
publication,'  perhaps,  because  you  are  too  young,  but 
you  write  for  all  that !  Novels — I  am  not  sure  about 
the  novels  for  the  same  reason;  short  stories  more 
possibly;  fragments  likeliest  of  all,  because  they 
come  easiest  to  imaginative  natures,  and,  being  a 
brunette,  you  have  just  ten  times  the  amount  of 
individuality  accorded  to  the  ordinary  English 
'Mees,'  with  a  putty  character  and  hay-coloured 
hair!" 

"This  is  uncanny !"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"Not  at  all,"  responded  Mr.  Cunninghame,  "it  is 
interest!" 

She  drew  herself  up  as  if  offended.  Before  he 
had  talked  with  her  five  minutes  he  perceived  one 


A   MERE    INCIDENT  2Oy 

of  her  greatest  attractions  lay  in  the  endless  variety 
of  her  moods,  which  were  reflected  at  once  in  her 
expression,  her  features,  her  attitude  itself.  These 
swift  transitions  reminded  you  of  an  April  day,  ex- 
cepting that  in  each  she  seemed  more  irresistible  than 
in  the  last,  and,  conversing  with  her,  you  were  always 
desirous  of  the  pleasurable  surprise  she  would  afford 
you  by  the  next.  When  she  laughed,  you  doubted 
that  she  could  be  capable  of  any  deep  emotion;  when 
she  was  serious,  you  marvelled  if  this  was  the  coun- 
tenance that  had  been  so  radiant  an  instant  before. 
He  experienced  the  longing  which,  when  it  does  enter 
a  man's  mind,  is  a  far  higher  tribute  to  the  woman's 
fascinations  than  the  mere  anxiety  to  extend  their 
acquaintance — he  wished  he  had  known  her  a  long 
while  already. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "I  was  rude !" 
For  a  man  to  ask  a  girl  to  forgive  him  is  to 
advance  a  stride  on  the  road  towards  familiarity. 
There  is  so  much  difference  between  "Forgive  me" 
and  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  resumed,  "your  criticism  has 
almost  encouraged  me  to  make  another  attempt,  to 
fancy  I  could  turn  out  something  better.  And  yet 
you  are  unfair  in  places,  too.  Why  do  you  confound 
the  writer's  views  with  his  personages'?  Given  a 
mondaine  and  an  Ingenue,  their  sentiments  would  be 
precisely  opposite,  wouldn't  they?  but  he  can't  be 
regarded  as  agreeing  with  both!" 


2O8  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"The  truth  of  that  is  forgotten  when  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  men  isn't  observed  as  fully,"  she 
retorted — "the  reader's  carelessness,  of  course,  but 
all  the  same  the  author's  fault.  Why  is  a  woman 
almost  always  the  central  figure  in  a  man's  novel? 
why  is  your  hero  so  puny  a  creature  in  comparison? 
For  instance,  you  often  take  a  wicked  woman,  and 
write  a  work  describing  her  vicissitudes;  do  you 
ever  do  so  much  about  the  adventures  of  a  bad 
man?" 

"Because,  even  in  their  failings,  women  are  the 
more  interesting;  because  masculine  character  is 
much  less  diverse.  I  know  a  dozen  girls  who  would 
make  engaging  heroines  in  fiction;  I  have  never  met 
one  man  who,  put  in,  as  he  stands,  for  the  hero, 
would  not  be  disgusting  before  the  end  of  the  second 
volume !" 

"You  are  hard  on  your  own  sex,  Mr.  Cunning- 
hame!" 

"My  own  sex,"  said  Mr.  Cunninghame,  medita- 
tively, "after  due  contemplation,  I  have  discovered 
to  be  beasts.  That  sounds  conceited,  doesn't  it,  but 
do  me  the  justice  to  remember  I  am  not  excepting 
myself  in  any  degree.  We  are  all  beasts;  some  of 
us  drop  our  disguise  more  frequently  than  others — 
that's  all." 

And  he  felt  himself  "a  beast,"  as  he  said  it,  for 
encouraging  her  to  remain  here  with  him  now,  when 
he  knew  he  should  object  to  his  sister  doing  a  similar 


A   MERE   INCIDENT  209 

thing.  Only  it  was  extremely  agreeable,  and  he  did 
not  mean  any  harm. 

"I  wonder  if  you  recollect,"  he  said,  "an  announce- 
ment the  author  of  'Court  Royal'  makes  in  his  pref- 
ace— but  perhaps  you  don't  read  prefaces?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  do;  after  the  story,  when 
the  writer's  allusions  to  it  are  doubly  significant." 

"The  passage  I  mean  is  terse:  'There  are  two 
heroines,  each  the  focussing  of  the  good  qualities 
of  the  two  groups,  and  two  heroes,  each  the  con- 
centration of  the  infirmities  of  the  same.'  That  is 
all;  he  volunteers  no  explanation  of  this  adjustment 
of  attributes,  no  reason  why  the  exemplification  of 
excellence  and  imperfection  should  not  be  reversed. 
The  course,  in  a  word,  is  so  absolutely  natural,  he 
trusts  to  the  readers'  intelligence  to  accept  it  without 
discussion,  and  this  in  a  preface  in  which  he  is  avow- 
edly not  crediting  them  with  overmuch.  Don't  go 
yet;  sit  down!" 

"I  ought  to  go,"  she  said. 

"Please  don't,"  he  persisted;  "you  have  plenty  of 
time !" 

"And  you  want  to  kill  yours?" 

"Well,  perhaps;  though,  without  compliments,  I 
should  beg  you  to  stay  anyhow !" 

"Poor,  maligned  Time !"  she  exclaimed,  "what 
plots  we  weave  for  its  destruction,  and  how  fond  we 
are  of  it  all  the  while  1" 


2 id  THIS    STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

"Are  we?"  he  demurred,  laughingly.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  of  it!" 

"We  are,  and  I'll  give  you  an  illustration:  you 
have  a  predilection  for  Literature,  you  want  to  excel 
in  it — granted  so  far?  Well,  putting  down  a  great 
work  that  has  delighted  you,  do  you  ever  feel,  'I 
would  give  ten  years  of  my  life  to  have  written  that 
book !  Could  I  make  that  production  mine,  I  would 
gladly  be  ten  years  older  to-day'  ?  Not  you,  not  one 
person  in  a  million !  And  what  does  it  prove  ?  Log- 
ically, that  the  love  of  Time,  we  are  always  pretend- 
ing we  want  to  kill,  is  one  of  the  strongest  passions 
in  human  nature !" 

He  shook  his  head.  "In  your  case  the  capital  is 
so  large,  you  could  afford  to  be  prodigal  in  your 
investments,"  he  said;  "if,  at  twenty,  ten  years  could 
purchase  fame,  we  should  all  be  famous.  You  argue 
from  the  standpoint  of  youth." 

"Which  is  a  polite  way  of  telling  me  I  am  talking 
nonsense !  It  always  means  that,  or  at  least  one 
always  fancies  so,  as  inevitably  as  when  people  begin 
'With  all  due  respect'  we  understand  it  merely  a 
prologue  to  something  in  the  very  opposite  direc- 
tion. I  assure  you  I  am  by  no  means  indignant  when 
I  am  called  young,  even  in  the  most  opprobrious 
sense  of  the  term;  I  always  think  it  such  a  pity  that, 
when  it  is  with  us,  youth  should  be  a  thing  we  are 
ashamed  of  and  endeavour  to  conceal,  only  to  envy 
and  imitate  it  as  soon  as  it  is  lost.  It  seems  so  dread- 


A   MERE   INCIDENT  211 

ful  it  should  not  be  capable  of  exciting  anything  but 
our  weaknesses." 

"It  is  like  a  bird,"  he  said;  "it  flies  so  swiftly 
that  we  don't  note  the  brilliance  of  its  plumage  till 
it's  dead."  He  felt  this  was  rather  good  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  he  didn't. 
"If  I  were  an  editor,  I  should  ask  you  to  let  me  see 
some  of  your  manuscripts." 

"You  would  be  so  disappointed,"  she  rejoined, 
frankly;  "they  are  quite  silly  to  everybody  but  my 
mother;  she  knows  me,  and  she  reads  between  the 
lines,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  she  makes  allowances. 
The  ones  I  like  least  are  best — those  I  intend  for 
recitation." 

"You  recite?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am  an  actress;  I  am  on  tour  now  with 
the  company  that  is  playing  at  the  'Royal'  this  week, 
but  when  I  am  in  town  I  often  attend  'at  homes,' 
and  then  original  compositions  are  useful — one  can 
be  sure  they  haven't  been  heard  before.  I  don't 
pose  as  the  authoress,  though,"  she  added,  brightly; 
"as  it  is,  they  sometimes  get  well  'noticed';  if  I 
acknowledged  them  as  my  own,  the  people  would 
cry,  'How  dare  she,  that  child!'  ' 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  new  astonishment;  the 
stage  was  the  last  vocation  with  which  he  would  have 
associated  her,  and  a  fresh  phase  of  her  character 
seemed  unfolding  itself  with  her  every  sentence. 

"And  do  you  write  when  you  are — 'on  tour'  ?" 


212  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

"I  really  don't  write  much  anywhere;  I  don't  be- 
lieve anybody  should  try  to  follow  two  professions, 
or  she  will  get  on  in  neither !" 

"A  proverb  asserts  two  strings  to  one's  bow  are 
advisable,"  suggested  Mr.  Cunninghame. 

"And  another  one  says  something  quite  to  the 
contrary  about  stools.  Never  substantiate  an  argu- 
ment with  a  proverb,  you  can  be  worsted  with  your 
own  weapons  so  easily.  No,  the  pursuits  most  prac- 
ticable for  a  beginner  to  couple,  I  should  imagine, 
are  Literature  and  the  Bar,  and  then  I  have  heard 
there  is  a  prejudice  against  'writing  barristers' ;  but, 
at  least  after  he  is  'called,'  Briefless  has  nothing  to 
do  but  go  to  his  chambers  every  morning,  and  wait 
till  the  solicitors  send.  With  us  it  is  different:  we 
have  to  do  our  own  soliciting,  and  hunt  up  engage- 
ments for  ourselves.  It  is  difficult  to  'woo  the  Muse' 
to  advantage  indoors  when  you  are  conscious  you 
ought  to  be  out  and  worrying  the  managers  instead, 
to  win  bread-and-butter!" 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  "but  both  your  callings  are 
anyhow  congenial,  I  presume ;  both  paths  attract  you, 
though  you  may  waver  at  the  cross-roads!  With 

me "  Confidences  were  springing  to  his  lips ;  he 

checked  the  impulse,  and  traced  designs  among  the 
pebbles  with  his  cane. 

"With  you ?"  she  said. 

He  looked  up,  met  her  gaze,  and  continued: 
"With  me  it  is  different!  My  mission  in  life  is  to 


A  MERE   INCIDENT  213 

conduct  a  business  in  India,  a  business  that  devolved 
upon  me  at  my  father's  death;  there  is  no  shirking  it, 
the  responsibilities  are  too  grave.  This  production 
of  mine  was  a  'holiday  task,'  done  during  my  first 
trip  to  England  since  I  went  out  to  Bombay  twelve 
years  ago.  Now  the  holiday  is  over,  the  boat  sails 
to-morrow;  it  may  be  twice  twelve  years  before  I 
see  home  again !" 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  gently;  "I  think  I  under- 
stand!" 

"I  put  so  much  of  what  I  felt  into  these  pages, 
in  parts  they  are  really  a  reflection  of  myself.  As 
a  boy,  I  hated  all  mention  of  the  house — I  wanted 
to  be  a  writer,  a  painter,  anything  approaching  Art; 
I  had  all  sorts  of  impossible  yearnings — the  atmos- 
phere of  cent,  per  cent,  seemed  death  to  me.  It  was 
all  no  use,  of  course;  my  destiny  was  mapped  out 
for  me  from  my  cradle,  and  my  ambitions  were  ridic- 
ulous— in  my  family  everything  is  'ridiculous'  that 
is  not  allied  to  trade" — he  was  talking  rapidly,  as 
men  do  talk  when  ashamed  of  their  own  earnestness. 
"I  do  not  know  why  I  am  telling  you  this,  I  am  sure 
it  cannot  interest  you ;  but  you  remind  me  of  myself 
as  I  used  to  be,  excepting  that  you  are  cleverer.  If 
I  had  a  sister  like  you,  if  I  had  met  a  friend  like 
you  out  there,  I  might  have  done  something  in  the 
world  after  all!" 

4  'Age  is  opportunity  no  less  than  youth  itself,'  ' 


214'  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

quoted  the  girl;  then  she  added,  hastily,  "Pardon 
me.  I  did  not  mean  that  you  were  old!" 

"No,  I  am  not  old,"  he  returned,  "not  old  as  years 
are  counted,  but  I  have  outlived  the  belief  in  my 
own  capabilities.  When  I  wrote  my — my  'Shilling 
Shocker' — it  revived  for  a  while;  I  almost  hoped — 
why  should  I  not  admit  it? — I  did  hope  that  my  pro- 
bation was  going  to  bear  fruit  after  all!  Often  the 
occupation  became  a  confidant  rather  than  a  labour, 
and  I  was  fool  enough  to  imagine  the  thoughts  I 
had  grown  resigned  to  keeping  to  myself,  because 
I  had  no  one  who  cared  to  listen  to  them  in  con- 
versation, might  be  deemed  worthy  of  perusal  in 
black-and-white.  A  stupid  blunder,  was  it  not,  to 
fancy  I  could  interest  the  public  where  I  bored  my 
friends  ?  But  I  was  speedily  undeceived ;  the  thoughts 
were  not  considered;  what  reader  looks  for  them 
between  the  covers  of  a  'Shilling  Shocker'? — he 
wants  the  story.  Until  to-day,  no  one,  even  in  my 
own  circle,  has  appeared  to  be  aware  that  they  exist; 
nobody  but  you  has  so  much  as  credited  them  with 
being  anything  more  than  'padding' — necessary  intro- 
ductions put  in  to  fill  out  the  plot;  and  yet  an  hour 
ago  we  had  never  seen  each  other,  and  if  I  had  fol- 
lowed my  intention  of  spending  the  afternoon  in 
Liverpool  we  never  should  have  seen  each  other, 
in  all  probability,  to  our  lives'  end!" 

"You  will  persevere,"  she  declared;  "you  will  per- 
severe, though  you  may  not  think  so  now.  From 


A   MERE   INCIDENT  215 

India  you  will  submit  another  manuscript,  and  an- 
other, and  another,  and  presently  you  will  command 
a  wider  audience.  Who  knows,  when  you  come  home 
next  time  you  may  be  a  great  author!" 

"And  find  you  a  celebrated  actress!"  he  rejoined, 
with  a  smile.  "I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  go  to  the 
theatre  in  London  one  evening  and  recognise  my 
companion  of  this  afternoon?  I  wonder  if  you 
would  remember  me  if  I  came  behind  the  scenes?" 

"I  am  going  to  watch  the  newspaper  columns  for 
the  advertisement  of  that  new  book  of  yours,  in  the 
meanwhile,"  she  retorted,  gaily;  "and  now  I  must 
go,  or  I  shall  be  late!" 

"It  seems  a  mistake,  somehow,  that  we  have  only 
met  to  say  'good-bye,'  "  he  murmured;  "but  when  I 
come  to  the  theatre " 

"You  will  be  famous !"  laughed  the  girl. 

"I  shall  be  old,  and  very  likely  bald,"  said  the 
man,  sadly,  "but  I  shall  come,  and  I  will  throw  you 
a  bouquet!  Will  you  do  me  P,  favour?  I  have  not 
known  you  very  long  to  ask  one,  but  I  should  like 
to  keep  this  copy  you  have  marked,  and  take  it  out 
to  India  with  me,  and  turn  to  your  notes  now  and 
then  to  remind  me  of  your  encouragement;  will  you 
let  me?" 

"Good-bye,"  she  said. 

"Will  you  let  me?"  he  repeated. 

"You  would  make  fun  of  them  one  day,"  she 


2l6  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

objected;  "you  would  be  surprised  you  were  not 
offended,  and  marvel  at  'that  girl's  audacity.' ' 

"I  never  will  make  fun  of  them,"  he  answered, 
gravely,  "and  I  shall  never  marvel  at  'that  girl's 
audacity.'  Give  me  this  book,  and  help  me  to  get 
on!" 

"I  give  it  to  you,"  she  said;  "take  it,  and  fulfil 
the  old  hopes  you  have  told  me  about." 

She  extended  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  an  instant 
in  his.  The  sunshine  had  faded  while  they  talked, 
and  now  the  pool  that  had  danced  so  merrily  slept 
in  shadow.  As  he  stood  looking  after  her,  the  nun's 
veiling  made  a  little  stain  of  colour  on  the  grayness, 
growing  fainter,  like  the  light,  with  her  every  on- 
ward step.  The  scene  was  no  longer  beautiful,  it 
was  desolate  and  bare.  Vaguer  and  more  indistinct 
grew  the  outline  of  the  receding  figure;  the  pink, 
merging  into  amber,  was  lost  amidst  the  darkness 
of  the  trees,  and,  as  a  bend  in  the  path  hid  the  last 
flutter  from  his  sight,  Mr.  Cunninghame  sighed;  he 
sighed  because — he  could  hardly  have  answered  why 
he  sighed  himself. 


THE    SOCIAL    SEE-SAW 

THEY  were  rehearsing  at  the  Empress's  Theatre. 

The  fog  that  for  the  past  two  hours  had  been 
steadily  enveloping  the  London  streets  had  at  length 
found  its  way  inside;  and  the  empty  auditorium — 
its  brown-holland  swathings  flapping  above  velvet 
and  gilding  with  every  current  of  invading  air — 
yawned  cynically  upon  the  efforts  of  the  players,  who, 
from  time  to  time,  congregated  in  the  wings  by 
knots  of  twos  and  threes  to  mutter  anathemas  on 
the  weather. 

In  the  O.P.  entrance  a  little  group  of  chorus-girls, 
in  dripping  waterproofs  and  muddy  boots,  stood 
listening  apathetically  to  what  they  termed  the 
"cackle"  of  their  more  favoured  sisters  with  lines, 
and  sullenly  inquiring  among  themselves  "why  the 
dickens  they  were  called  so  early?" 

"He  always  does  it,  and  we  shan't  be  wanted  for 
an  hour  yet,"  remarked  Lydia  Vavasour,  viciously, 
referring  to  the  stage-manager,  with  her  mouth  full 
of  ham-and-beef  sandwich.  "Beast  I  I  shan't  come 
till  twelve  to-morrow,  see  if  I  do!"  Discontent  was 
apparent  in  the  countenances  of  all.  Beneath  the 
general  depression,  the  best  parts  no  longer  held  out 

217 


2I&  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

promise  of  a  "hit;"  even  to  the  author,  the  dialogue 
had  lost  its  sparkle,  and  seemed  flat. 

"Chorus  to-morrow  at  eleven,  please !  You  won't 
be  required  to-day!" 

At  this  intimation  they  flocked,  giggling  and  grum- 
bling, through  the  narrow  doorway  into  the  passage 
beyond,  honouring  with  several  backward  stares  upon 
the  step  a  man  who,  with  gloved  wrists  protruding 
from  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat,  was  lounging  by 
the  fire  just  inside  the  hall-keeper's  recess.  One  of 
their  number,  a  fair,  pretty  girl,  simply  dressed, 
detached  herself  from  the  rest,  and  at  sight  of  her 
he  came  forward,  and  they  shook  hands.  That  was 
all ;  there  was  nothing  demonstrative  about  the  greet- 
ing; it  was  as  cool  and  collected  a  "how  d'ye  do"  as 
could  well  be  conceived;  yet  these  two  people  were 
very  absurdly  in  love  with  each  other  indeed,  and 
every  one  of  the  crowd  of  chattering  young  women 
was  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact,  as  the  couple,  amidst 
sundry  nods  and  nudges  from  the  lookers-on,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  hansom  in  waiting  at  the  bottom  of 
the  court. 

"Cissy!" 

"Dick!" 

It  was  raining  hard.  The  lamps  splashed  the 
sloppy  pavements  with  stains  of  yellow  light;  in  the 
gutters,  the  water  and  the  mud  flowed  fatly.  Rat- 
tling slowly  through  almost  deserted  thoroughfares, 
the  cab  at  length  drew  up  with  a  jerk  before  an  office 


THE    SOCIAL    SEE-SAW  2 19 

of  melancholy  exterior,  and  the  lady  and  gentleman 
descended.  The  driver  had  discussed  a  short  clay 
pipe,  and  imbibed  "a  drop  of  summat  hot,"  procured 
by  an  accommodating  loiterer  from  the  adjacent 
"pub."  before  they  emerged,  and  took  their  seats 
inside  the  vehicle  again.  Around  them  the  shabby 
plush  cushions  exuded  an  indescribable  odour  of 
mustiness  and  damp;  the  window  came  down  in  their 
faces  with  a  clatter  and  a  bang;  and  behind  the  glass, 
blurred  with  the  moisture  that  trickled  monotonously 
into  the  frame,  the  lips  of  the  male  and  female  fare 
met  silently  in  a  long  kiss  of  promise  and  content. 

While  Jehu  had  been  fortifying  himself  against 
the  elements  with  rum  and  shag,  two  more  fools  had 
blundered,  and  they  who  alighted  from  the  hansom 
Mr.  Robert  Ashford  and  Miss  Cissy  Kent,  had  re- 
turned to  it  as  man  and  wife. 

When  it  leaked  out  that  Mr.  Ashford  had  mar- 
ried a  chorus-girl,  folks  received  the  intelligence  with 
the  indifference  begotten  of  contempt.  Very  many 
seasons  ago  he  had  vanished  from  "Society,"  and 
his  mesalliance  was  merely  regarded  as  the  last  step 
in  a  downward  career.  In  the  parlance  of  clubdom, 
"Dick  Ashford  had  been  going  to  the  bad  for  years," 
though,  to  do  him  justice,  murmured  clubdom  over 
its  cigarettes,  he  must  have  drunk  away  his  brains 
to  a  considerable  extent  before  he  committed  a  blun- 
der as  irremediable  as  this. 


22O  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

Behind  the  scenes,  however,  they  had  another 
version.  They  said  that  Cissy  Kent  was  as  honest  a 
little  body  as  ever  breathed,  "straight  as  a  die," 
and  possessed  of  the  merit  even  rarer  than  histrionic 
ability  among  her  class,  the  ambition  to  get  on. 
They  added  that  she  had  thrown  herself  away  on 
a  man  with  nothing  to  recommend  him  but  the  cut 
of  his  clothes,  and  it  would  not  be  long  before  she 
found  it  out. 

These  criticisms  notwithstanding,  which  tallied 
only  on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  match  a  mis- 
take, the  behaviour  of  the  parties  principally  con- 
cerned at  present  evinced  no  signs  of  regret  for  the 
departure  taken  on  that  memorable  November  morn- 
ing when  they  had  commenced  their  honeymoon  in 
a  pair  of  cosily  furnished  apartments  in  Great  Rus- 
sell Street.  Mr.  Ashford,  indeed,  with  a  "monkey" 
to  his  credit,  had  proposed  a  preliminary  month  in 
Monte  Carlo,  but  the  bride  immediately  crushed  this 
suggestion  as  too  preposterously  extravagant  to  be 
considered;  and  when  they  came  in  out  of  the  fog, 
and  went  to  the  "home"  they  had  engaged,  it  seemed 
to  her,  lying  back  in  the  chintz-covered  armchair, 
with  her  hand  in  his,  and  her  slippered  feet  extended 
luxuriously  towards  the  welcome  fire,  that  she  could 
not  love  the  man  too  much  who  had  given  her  this 
delicious  sense  of  security  and  ease  in  exchange  for 
the  slip-shod  poverty  of  a  "combined  room"  at  the 
wrong  end  of  Waterloo  Bridge. 


THE    SOCIAL    SEE-SAW  221 

In  the  first  flush  of  matrimonial  tenderness,  Dick 
Ashford  found  the  evenings  with  his  wife  at  the 
theatre  insufferably  dull,  and  before  the  expiration 
of  a  fortnight  had  urged  her  strongly  to  resign  her 
post.  "What  did  they  want,"  he  asked,  philosophis- 
ing, on  the  hearth-rug  across  a  brandy-and-soda, 
"with  a  guinea  a  week  from  this  when  they  had  close 
upon  four  hundred  pounds  lying  at  the  bank?  No, 
no,  that  was  just  where  women  made  the  mistake ! 
Trust  to  him,  when  a  fellow  was  well-dressed,  and 
could  stand  drinks  enough,  he  was  generally  able  to 
hear  of  a  good  thing  in  time,  and  meanwhile  the 
clever  course  was  to  appear  as  substantially  off  as 
they  possibly  could !" 

So  the  name  of  "Cissy  Kent"  disappeared  from 
the  foot  of  the  Empress's  programmes,  and  Mrs.. 
Robert  Ashford  had  her  stall  at  the  West  End  houses 
instead,  both  agreeing  that  the  luckiest  day  each 
had  known  was  the  day  they  had  married,  and,  next 
to  that,  the  one  on  which  they  met.  To  the  man, 
the  unfamiliar  respectability  was  refreshing,  and  the 
dash  of  Bohemianism  when  he  took  his  wife  to  a 
cafe  a  little  questionable,  for  supper,  imparted  just 
that  flavour  to  the  decorum  essential  for  a  palate 
somewhat  too  jaded  to  appreciate  les  convenances 
in  their  entirety.  To  the  girl,  the  indolence  of  wit- 
nessing "a  show  from  the  front,"  the  very  act  of 
folding  her  delicately  gloved  hands,  and  waiting  to 
be  amused,  the  tiny  opera-glass  levelled  at  the  stage 


222;  THIS  STAGE  OF   FOOLS 

from  that  unaccustomed  position  across  the  dear  old 
"floats,"  were  all  fraught  with  the  fascination  of 
freshness,  and  as  intoxicating  as  they  were  new. 
Thus,  both  husband  and  wife  were  satisfied,  and — 
neither  being  addicted  to  the  analysis  o*f  sensation — 
for  a  considerable  period  each  was  in  ignorance  that 
their  contentment  sprung  from  novelty  alone. 

It  was  only  for  a  period.  By-and-by  Mr.  Ash- 
ford's  thoughts  turned  towards  the  evenings  of  his 
bachelordom,  the  more  varied  distractions,  the  wider 
range  of  companionship,  he  had  abandoned;  and 
Mrs.  Ashford,  amongst  the  audience,  silently  pic- 
tured the  players  after  their  exits,  and  followed  them 
mentally  to  the  dressing-rooms,  and  listened  again 
in  fancy  to  all  the  "extras'  "  tales  of  hope  and  disap- 
pointment in  the  darling  regions  "behind"  that  were 
now  impassable. 

Each  had  begun  to  yearn  for  the  life  which  had 
been  relinquished,  and  the  man  returned  to  it  first. 
Two-thirds  of  their  money  had  melted,  and  the 
"good  thing"  of  which  he  had  discoursed  so  learn- 
edly six  months  since,  after  assuming  various  vision- 
ary forms,  now  a  partnership  in  a  proprietary  club, 
anon  an  interest  in  a  projected  company,  was  no 
nearer  attainment  than  before.  It  was  in  search  of 
it,  he  explained,  that  he  had  taken  to  quitting  the 
house  in  dress-clothes  alone  about  nine  p.m.,  and 
letting  himself  in  with  the  latch-key  slightly  unsteady 
in  his  gait,  and  decidedly  husky  in  his  tones.  The 


THE   SOCIAL   SEE-SAW  223 

"good  things"  appealing  to  Mr.  Ashford's  type  are 
not  met  with  in  the  city. 

The  landlady  now  referred  to  the  solitary  lodger 
upstairs  as  "a  neglected  wife,"  and  daylight  of  late 
had  often  discovered  her  alone  on  the  bed  where  she 
had  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

At  last  she  went  back  to  the  stage.  Her  voice  was 
no  fortune,  but  it  sufficed  for  the  chorus  in  comic 
opera,  and  she  was  offered  an  "understudy"  of  a 
few  lines  in  the  preceding  farce.  Dick  accorded  his 
permission,  very  red  about  the  eyes  after  an  absence 
of  eight-and-forty  hours,  and  the  girl  almost  forgot 
her  unhappiness.  An  "understudy!"  It  was  a  step 
in  the  direction  she  had  always  planned;  it  was  the 
bottom  rung  of  the  ladder  which,  to  her  heated 
imagination,  bore  the  dazzling  inscription  of  "Act- 
ress" on  its  height. 

Excepting  that,  being  now  April,  no  exterior  influ- 
ence was  at  work  to  add  to  the  dreariness  of  its 
aspect,  the  Empress's  presented  much  the  same  ap- 
pearance when  Mrs.  Ashford  walked  across  its 
boards  again  as  it  had  borne  on  the  morning  that 
Cissy  Kent  had  hurried  from  rehearsal  to  get  mar- 
ried. Knots  of  women  were  congregated  here  and 
there,  expatiating  upon  the  number  of  their 
"changes,"  and  the  drawbacks  and  attractions  which 
each  attire  possessed.  Half  a  dozen  who  only  wore 
four  costumes  apiece  were  bent  upon  convincing  the 
majority,  who  were  allotted  five,  that  so  far  from 


224'  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

feeling  sorry  for  the  deprivation,  they  esteemed  it 
"a  jolly  good  job." 

"We  couldn't  change  from  the  pages'  things  quick 
enough  to  come  on  in  the  last  scene,  so  we  aren't 
in  it !"  they  cried  with  tumultuous  explanation.  "We 
shall  be  dressed,  and  half  home,  before  you  are  'off.' 
How's  that  for  high?" 

It  was  the  old  existence  wedded  to  new  cares  and 
anxieties,  for  it  became  an  accepted  thing  that  her 
salary  was  to  defray,  as  completely  as  possible,  the 
weekly  bill,  and  when  she  hesitatingly  petitioned  for 
the  requisite  assistance  from  his  purse,  Dick,  with 
suddenly  developed  theories  on  the  subject  of  expen- 
diture, responded  anent  the  madness  of  "eating  up 
their  capital."  Once,  waylaid  as  he  was  leaving  the 
house  in  elaborate  toilette,  earlier  than  was  his  wont, 
he  said  more;  he  said  "he  was  damned  if  he  had 
known  his  marriage  would  cost  such  a  lot!"  And 
the  girl,  bitterly  conscious  of  his  extravagance,  and 
at  her  wits'  end  herself,  with  a  superfluity  of  winter 
gowns,  how  to  save  sufficient  shillings  to  run  up  a 
few  yards  of  print  for  the  spring,  retorted  with  a 
passionate  rebuke,  and  then  ensued  their  first  quar- 
rel. He  was  out  when  she  got  back  from  the  theatre, 
but  next  afternoon  she  suggested  timidly  that  Mrs. 
Barker  had  two  rooms  vacant  on  the  third  floor; 
they  would  be  much  cheaper  than  her  own,  and — 
didn't  Dick  think  they  would  do  quite  nicely? 

About  a  month  subsequent  to  this  alteration  in 


THE   SOCIAL   SEE-SAW  225 

their  domestic  arrangements,  the  stage-manager 
beckoned  to  the  astounded  little  aspirant,  at  the  fall 
of  the  curtain,  and  informed  her  that,  as  the  lady 
whom  she  understudied  would  be  leaving,  he  had 
decided  to  entrust  her  with  the  part. 

She  hardly  knew  how  she  expressed  her  gratitude, 
for  her  head  was  in  a  whirl.  Half  a  dozen  lines 
with  a  sentence  sure  to  get  a  laugh,  if  properly  deliv- 
ered! The  intelligence  seemed  too  glorious  to  be 
real. 

When  she  reached  the  dressing-room,  in  company 
with  the  others,  all  babbling  of  her  good  luck,  she 
was  astonished  to  find  Miss  Vavasour,  one  of  six 
pages,  still  before  the  glass — retarded,  it  transpired, 
by  the  carelessness  of  the  laundress,  of  whose  stu- 
pidity she  was  launching  into  furious  denunciation. 

Apprised,  in  a  trio,  of  the  improvement  in  her 
companion's  prospects,  she  was  pleased  to  offer  her 
congratulations,  with  the  sarcastic  comment  that 
some  people  were  artful  enough  to  get  around  the 
right  people,  and  their  advancement  suffered  not 
from  any  unfortunate  ignorance  of  which  side  of  a 
slice  of  bread  the  butter  was  laid.  This  observation, 
however,  might  have  led  to  nothing  further,  for 
Cissy  was  in  no  mood  to  take  offence,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  trifling  occurrence  which  was  destined  to 
add  fuel  to  the  flames. 

Dressing  with  trembling  celerity,  she  was  ready 
to  say  "Good  night,"  while  Miss  Vavasour's  counte- 


226!  THIS   STAGE   OF,   FOOLS 

nance  was  yet  an  unpleasant  spectacle  of  vaseline  and 
"make-up."  It  was  the  last  straw,  and  drew  a  shaft 
of  truly  feminine  malice — 

"Make  haste,  my  dear ;  your  husband  '11  be  waiting 
supper  for  you!" 

The  girl  turned  with  flashing  eyes — 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Oh,  you  know !  He'll  be  sitting  on  the  doorstep, 
singing  'Home,  sweet  home,'  and  watching  till  you 
come  back!" 

The  shriek  that  followed  this  witticism  echoed  in 
the  ears  of  the  unhappy  wife  all  the  way  downstairs, 
and  when,  on  issuing  into  the  street,  she  actually 
ran  into  Dick's  arms,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  was 
so  great  that  she  barely  noticed  that  his  manner 
was  constrained,  or  heard  his  mumbled  ejaculation 
to  the  effect  that  he  had  not  expected  her  to  be  out 
so  soon. 

A  fortnight  afterwards  the  stage-manager  patted 
her  approvingly  on  the  arm,  and  told  her  she  had 
acquitted  herself  well;  he  intimated,  moreover,  that 
next  Friday  night  her  envelope  would  contain  a 
trifling  increase,  in  consideration  of  her  extra  work. 

That  Friday  night  was  a  very  important  one  in 
Cissy's  calendar,  for  the  following  morning  would 
be  the  anniversary  of  Dick's  birthday,  and  by  dint 
of  excessive  economy,  and  banishing  from  her  mind 
the  allurements  of  yards  of  print,  she  reckoned  to 
be  able  to  buy  him  a  present.  Having  not  so  much 


THE   SOCIAL  SEE-SAW  227 

as  sixpence  in  the  world  till  treasury  time  came  round, 
she  was  forced  to  postpone  her  purchase  until  the 
conclusion  of  the  performance,  and  then  the  lateness 
of  the  hour  somewhat  limited  her  selection.  Few 
of  the  shops  were  open  save  the  tobacconists',  and 
the  gift,  of  necessity,  resolved  itself  into  a  cigarette- 
case.  She  was  threading  her  way  among  the  throng 
in  the  Strand,  picturing  his  surprise,  the  precious 
packet  clasped  tightly  in  her  hand,  when  a  block  in 
the  pedestrians  caused  her  suddenly  to  pause,  and 
before  she  was  free  to  resume  her  course,  a  hansom 
had  pulled  up  almost  at  her  feet,  and  its  occupants 
got  out.  They  were  a  man  and  woman,  the  former 
laughing  at  some  remark  of  his  associate's  as  they 
brushed  past  her  to  the  entrance  of  the  restaurant 
by  which  she  stood.  It  was  the  laugh  attracted  her 
attention,  and  then,  across  the  shoulder  of  the  burly 
constable  in  front  of  her,  she  saw  Lydia  Vavasour 
and  Dick. 

Sick  and  faint,  she  groped  her  way  towards  home. 
The  whole  universe  seemed  topsy-turvy  under  this 
last  indignity.  'She  saw  squalid  virtue  huddled,  starv- 
ing and  unheeded,  in  the  mouths  of  the  filthy  alleys 
to  which  it  had  been  crowded  off  the  pavement  by 
successful  vice.  She  saw  a  woman  with  yellow  hair 
and  diamonds  spit  in  the  face  of  a  ragged  flower-girl, 
who  was  imploring  her  to  spare  a  penny.  She  re- 
flected that  both  these  human  beings  were  of  an 
age,  born,  in  all  probability,  in  the  same  station; 


228:  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

had  opened  their  eyes  in  life  upon  similar  surround- 
ings, and  she  recognised  it  was  the  honest  one  that 
was  destitute,  while  her  sister  in  satin  drove  away 
swearing,  to  the  admiration  of  a  sycophantic  mob, 
who  yelled,  shrilly  mirthful,  as  the  outcast  fell  back 
from  the  horse's  feet,  wiping  the  other's  offering  off 
her  cheek. 

At  noon  next  day  passionate  words  broke  the 
silence  of  the  Great  Russell  Street  lodging.  Mrs. 
Ashford  told  her  husband  she  had  endured  his  treat- 
ment long  enough;  she  said  if  he  had  no  affection, 
he  might  have  at  least  shown  decency;  she  cried  that 
his  own  self-respect  would  have  prevented  a  gentle- 
man making  his  wife  the  laughing-stock  of  the  thea- 
tre where  she  worked  to  earn  their  living ! 

"Go  your  way,  and  I  go  mine!"  she  exclaimed; 
and  the  man,  stung  to  the  quick,  retorted  that  she 
might  go  where  she  chose,  and  as  speedily. 

The  present  was  stamped  on  the  floor,  and  then 
wrath  gave  way  to  resolution. 

"It  is  best  for  both !  I  suppose  we  were  not  fitted 
for  each  other,  but  my  love  is  dead,  crushed  like  that 
silly  thing  there  on  the  ground;  you  have  killed  it, 
Dick,  and  you  will  never  see  me  any  more.  I've 
no  husband,  and  no  home;  I  leave  you  as  you  took 
me,  penniless,  but  I  have  got  my  profession  and  my 
hopes,  and  I'm  Cissy  Kent  again !" 

A  little  theatrical,  perhaps,  but  she  had  been  cra- 
dled in  the  theatre. 


THE    SOCIAL   SEE-SAW  22Q 

Before  the  lamps  were  lighted,  the  assistant  at 
the  little  fancy-stationer's  across  the  road  had  twice 
observed  Mrs.  Barker's  maidservant  running  out  for 
a  four-wheeler,  once  at  three,  and  next  at  five  o'clock. 
Both  departed  from  No.  —  with  luggage,  and  the 
first  carried  away  a  lady,  the  second  a  gentleman. 
Then  a  card  was  put  in  the  window  which  announced 
apartments  to  let. 

Ten  years  passed  before  the  man  stood  in  London 
again,  and  he  had  changed  in  the  interval. 

"Ashford!" 

He  paused,  scarcely  determining  in  his  degrada- 
tion whether  recognition  should  be  a  matter  for 
congratulation  or  despair. 

He  winced  as  he  witnessed  the  amazement  his 
appearance  provoked,  the  backward  step  which  fol- 
lowed the  inspection  of  the  clothes  that  he  knew 
were  shocking,  and  the  eyes  that  would  look  haggard 
in  spite  of  his  will. 

"You  find  me  seedy,  old  fellow!"  The  quiver  of 
his  lips  belied  the  miserable  attempt  at  ease.  "Very 
seedy,"  he  repeated  tremulously;  "in  fact  I'm  broke." 

When  this  man  before  him  was  a  boy,  they  had 
been  companions,  and  Ashford  had  "shown  him 
life,"  spending,  to  give  him  his  due,  considerably 
more  in  the  process  than  his  youthful  disciple.  There 
was  perhaps  a  remembrance  of  this  in  his  mind  as 
he  inquired,  "And  what  are  you  doing?"  settling 


230  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

his  napless  hat  with  a  momentary  return  to  his  for- 
mer jauntiness  of  demeanour,  and  eyeing  the  partner 
of  his  old  extravagance  wistfully. 

"I?  Oh,  I'm  running  a  show — a  theatre,  don't 
you  know;  but  I  must  be  moving;  I've  an  appoint- 
ment, or  I'd  say  come  and  have  a  bit  of  lunch.  So 
ta-ta." 

"One  moment,  Lindsay.  Hang  it,  it's  not  pleasant 
to  admit,  but,  by  the  Lord,  I've  only  twopence  I  can 
put  my  hands  on.  Can  you — can't  you — shove  me 
into  something  now?  you  might  surely  do  that." 

"Can  you  act?"  said  Mr.  Lindsay,  facetiously. 

"Act!"  echoed  Dick;  "of  course  I  can't  act,  you 
know  that!" 

"Then  I  don't  see  what  /  can  do,  'pon  my  honour ! 
I'm  deuced  pressed  for  ready  money  myself  this 
month.  Tell  you  what:  if  you're  really  stoney,  and 
don't  mind  'walking  on,'  take  this  card  down  to  the 
'Sceptre,'  and  ask  to  see  Mr.  Smale.  And  now  I 
must  be  off.  Ta-ta !" 

The  first  impulse  of  the  wretched  recipient  of  this 
favour  was  to  fling  the  pasteboard  in  the  mud;  but 
hunger's  influence  is  very  powerful,  and  prudence 
prevailed. 

That  night  Mr.  Robert  Ashford  was  huddled  in 
a  whitewashed  garret  with  six  or  eight  other  super- 
numeraries, ruddling  his  cheeks  with  rouge  accord- 
ing to  their  instructions,  and  mutely  asking  himself 
if  the  limits  of  destiny  had  now  been  reached,  or  if 


THE   SOCIAL   SEE-SAW  23 1 

it  could  be  ordained  that  he  was  to  sink  deeper 
still. 

Deeper?  He  thought  not,  as  the  call-boy's  shout 
summoned  him,  with  the  whole  gang,  like  convicts, 
to  the  wings;  he  prayed  not,  as,  clothed  in  a  miser- 
able travesty  of  evening-dress,  he  leant  there,  bitterly 
abashed  by  his  position,  awaiting  the  setting  of  the 
"ball"  scene,  which  was  to  consummate  his  shame. 
He  reviewed  his  career;  he  wondered  if  he  had  pluck 
enough  for  that  final  plunge  which  should  end  it 
altogether,  and,  while  wondering,  was  pushed  aside 
by  one  of  the  staff,  who  bade  him  roughly,  "Get  out 
of  the  leading-lady's  exit!" 

He  drew  back  with  a  muttered  apology,  and  a 
woman  swept  laughing  past  him  from  the  stage,  fol- 
lowed by  a  long  roar  of  applause,  that  sounded  to 
his  unaccustomed  ear  like  the  rattle  of  artillery, 
muffled  and  far  off. 

"Wot  an  orkerd  chap  you  are !"  said  the  carpen- 
ter; "blowed  if  yer  wasn't  standing  right  in  Miss 
Kent's  way !  Halloa,  mate,  wot's  up  ?" 

It  was  something  down;  the  "orkerd  chap"  had 
suddenly  gasped  for  breath,  and,  before  anyone 
could  save  him,  fallen  on  the  floor.  It  was  some- 
thing down;  a  woman  on  her  knees  beside  him,  loos- 
ening his  collar,  and  smoothing  the  hair  from  his 
poor,  wet  brow.  Pillowed  on  her  lap,  the  tired 
eyes  opened  slowly,  with  a  look  of  infinite  appeal. 


23  21  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

Aghast  and  pitiful,  the  face  above  him  drooped  lower 
— lower  yet — till  the  word  he  would  have  spoken 
was  hushed  to  silence  by  her  lips.  And  in  that  kiss 
the  "super"  and  his  wife  had  met. 


"FLUFFUMS" 


FREDDY  LUDLOW  was  the  son  of  a  rector  in  the 
shires,  and,  as  he  did  not  manifest  any  inclination 
for  the  Church,  his  father  declared  that  the  only 
thing  for  him  was  to  be  a  barrister.  The  process 
by  which  the  rector  arrived  at  the  alternative  is  not 
very  clear,  but  he  did  arrive  at  it,  and  Freddy  accord- 
ingly went  up  to  Town,  and  ate  his  dinners,  and 
prepared  himself  to  shine  in  the  profession  of  all 
others  for  which  he  was  most  unfit. 

He  was  a  short  young  man,  with  a  shock  of  stub- 
born hair,  mild  blue  eyes,  and  an  expression  of 
amiable  innocence.  To  look  a  fool,  when  you  are 
decidedly  the  reverse,  may  be  very  alvantageous  in 
life,  if  you  are  independent  of  your  neighbours'  good 
opinion;  but  to  look  a  fool  if  you  have  to  rely  on 
their  assistance  to  reach  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder, 
is  the  next  worst  thing  to  being  one. 

Nobody  entrusted  Freddy  with  a  brief,  and,  after 
a  while,  he  found  his  vocation  distinctly  tedious.  To 
perspire  in  court,  and  make  his  head  ache  in  the 
acquisition  of  legal  knowledge  which  he  would  never 
apparently  have  an  opportunity  to  display,  seemed 
to  him  stupid.  Even  the  view  of  the  tulips  and 

233 


234  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

the  murmur  of  the  fountain  bored  him  by  degrees, 
so  at  last  he  allowed  his  wig  to  repose  in  its  box,  and 
the  drab  and  gray  volumes  on  the  shelf  to  grow 
dusty,  and  he  took  to  writing  comedies,  on  which 
he  wasted  his  postage-stamps,  and  which  returned 
to  him — when  the  managers  did  not  lose  them — 
after  many  days. 

How  long  he  might  have  continued  the  occupation 
if  nothing  had  happened  to  interrupt  him,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say.  As  it  happened,  however,  when  he  had 
amassed  a  collection  of  rejected  manuscripts,  con- 
siderably bulkier  than  the  dusty  library,  his  father 
died — the  end  having  been  hastened  by  the  collapse 
of  one  of  those  bubbles  which  seem  especially  blown 
for  the  destruction  of  widows  and  parsons.  He  died, 
and  Freddy  was  left  with  nothing  but  his  sorrow 
and  a  hundred  pounds.  He  was  not  very  practical, 
but  it  was  obvious  to  him  that  he  would  have  to  earn 
a  living  now,  and,  as  the  shock  left  him  capable  of 
reflection,  he  began  to  ask  himself  what  he  should 
do. 

As  a  result,  he  decided  to  go  on  the  stage.  He 
had  a  passion  for  the  stage;  if  he  could  not  write 
for  it,  he  would  act  on  it.  He  had  not  the  least  idea 
that  his  appearance  intensified  the  difficulty  of  his 
obtaining  an  engagement  a  thousand-fold,  and  he 
betook  himself  to  an  agent,  to  whom  he  imparted 
his  desire,  and  paid  a  booking-fee. 

The  agent  was  an  affable  man,  but  slow — so  slow 


"FLUFFUMS"  235 

that  presently  the  hundred  pounds  was  only  fifty; 
and,  in  view  of  the  fact,  Freddy  visited  other  agents, 
all  of  whom  seemed  strangely  to  resemble  the  first 
gentleman  in  their  characters. 

Then  Freddy  answered  advertisements  in  the  the- 
atrical papers,  but  nobody  ever  answered  him,  and 
he  was  within  measurable  distance  of  despair  and  a 
clerkship,  when,  through  the  interest  of  an  acquaint- 
ance in  the  Temple,  who  also  dabbled  in  dramatic 
literature,  he  found  himself  "walking  on"  in  evening 
dress  at  a  West  End  theatre,  with  nothing  to  say,  at 
a  guinea  a  week. 

The  piece  did  not  run  very  long,  and  in  the  next 
one  there  was  not  a  "ball  scene,"  and  so  no  "guests" 
were  required;  but,  having  scented  the  footlights, 
he  felt  that  any  other  vocation  was  henceforth  im- 
possible, and  he  had  profited,  moreover,  by  the  con- 
versation in  the  dressing-room. 

He  now  understood  that  he  had  wasted  his  time 
and  his  money  by  pinning  his  faith  on  the  agent 
fraternity  before  he  had  played  some  parts,  and 
gained  a  few  "notices";  and,  on  the  same  principle, 
he  realised  that  it  was  useless  addressing  graceful 
letters  to  managers  who  had  never  heard  of  him. 
The  only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  bombard  them 
with  introductions.  He  went  to  his  friend  in  the 
Temple  again,  and  lured  him  into  an  adjacent  bar, 
and  by-and-by — so  beneficial  is  the  judicious  appli- 
cation of  dry  sherry! — meek  little  Freddy  Ludlow 


236  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

was  "shivering  his  timbers"  in  a  nautical  melodrama, 
to  an  audience  with  a  discomfiting  habit  of  making 
facetious  remarks. 

Still  it  was  a  stock  season,  and  it  meant  experi- 
ence. He  murdered  a  new  part  every  week,  and 
sometimes  to  applause.  After  the  seafaring-party 
he  played  a  London  "rough,"  "doubling"  it  with  a 
good  clergyman,  who  came  on  in  the  last  act,  and 
established  the  hero's  innocence.  Then  they  put  on 
Arrah-na-Pogue,  and  he  was  cast  for  the  Serjeant, 
and  when  he  uttered  the  famous  line  to  the  effect  that 
his  prisoner  was  "A  man  in  trouble,  and  not  a  badger 
in  a  hole,  to  be  baited  by  curs  like  you !"  he  brought 
the  house  down,  and  subsequently  shed  tears  of  tri- 
umph in  his  make-up  box. 

To  follow  him  through  all  his  vicissitudes  would 
be  as  unprofitable  as  he  found  his  profession.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  when  he  had  been  on  the  stage 
for  three  years — counting  the  intervals  between  his 
engagements,  which  were  a  good  deal  longer  than 
the  engagements  themselves — he  discovered,  to  his 
surprise,  that  his  pen,  which  he  had  never  relin- 
quished, had  become  quite  as  valuable  a  factor  to- 
wards a  livelihood  as  the  theatre. 

He  had  taken  to  writing  short  stories,  and  as  he 
was  even  asked  for  these  sometimes  by  a  certain 
appreciative  editor,  and  no  manager  ever  asked  him 
to  go  and  join  his  company,  he  gradually  hung  about 


FLUFFUMS  237 

the  stage-doors  less  and  less,  and  sat  at  the  table 
in  his  bedroom  more  and  more. 

One  day  he  was  offered  the  chance  of  doing  the 
theatrical  notices  for  a  minor  periodical.  It  was 
a  very  minor  periodical,  and  the  salary  was  propor- 
tionate; but  the  income  would  at  least  be  regular, 
and  Freddy  took  a  decisive  step.  He  abandoned 
his  hope  of  becoming  an  Edmund  Kean  with  an  alac- 
rity he  had  never  conceived  to  be  possible,  and  called 
himself  proudly  a  dramatic  critic — though  the  laun- 
dry-bills for  so  many  dress-shirts  were  a  considera- 
tion. 

Later  on  he  returned  to  his  first  love,  and  wrote 
another  play;  but  this  time  he  collaborated  with  a 
dramatist  of  some  position,  and  for  eighteen  months 
basked  in  the  belief  that  his  fortune  was  made. 

It  was  a  drama — at  once  sensational  and  domes- 
tic. There  never  was  so  strong  a  drama,  nor  had 
any  novice,  since  the  world  began,  had  such  luck 
as  he  in  finding  a  well-known  man  like  King  willing 
to  work  with  him  I  His  future  was  assured  now ! 
A  Woman's  Crime  was  submitted  to  one  of  the  best 
houses  in  London,  and  the  managers  were  delighted 
with  it,  and  talked  of  putting  it  on  next.  Somehow, 
though,  when  the  time  came,  they  did  not.  On 
the  whole,  they  did  not  know  that  it  suited  them.  It 
was  a  pity  that  they  had  not  said  so  in  the  first 
instance,  but,  albeit  a  little  damped,  the  authors  dis- 
patched it  somewhere  else. 


238  THIS   STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

Here  certain  alterations  were  suggested,  with  the 
intimation  that  if  they  were  made  the  piece  would  be 
produced  in  the  spring.  Freddy  did  not  approve 
of  the  suggestions — he  considered  they  were  "artis- 
tically wrong" — but  his  partner,  who  had  more 
worldly  wisdom  (and  a  large  family  to  bring  up), 
said  that  "so  long  as  the  damned  thing  was  'done,' 
that  didn't  matter  a  straw !"  and  they  therefore  went 
to  work,  and  chopped  and  changed  as  instructed. 

The  literary  carpentering  and  joining  took  a  good 
deal  of  time  and  thought,  and,  in  spite  of  all  their 
pains,  it  was  not  so  well  constructed  a  piece  after 
they  had  finished  as  it  had  been  before  they  began. 
The  manager,  however,  signified  approval  of  the 
manner  in  which  his  hints  had  been  followed,  and  so 
they  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  and  smiled  the  smile 
of  labour  rewarded. 

Their  satisfaction,  alas!  had  been  premature. 
When  the  spring  came,  it  was  not  A  Woman's  Crime 
which  was  put  into  rehearsal.  The  manager  said 
he  should  probably  do  that  in  the  autumn ;  and  when 
the  autumn  came,  he  said  he  should  most  likely  do 
it  in  the  spring.  They  asked  him  desperately  if  he 
would  advance  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  on 
account  of  fees,  and  he  "feared  it  was  impossible." 
Then  they  threw  up  their  arms,  and  took  the  manu- 
script away  from  him,  and  Freddy  told  his  collabora- 
tor he  might  keep  it  as  a  souvenir  of  their  association. 

But  it  was   an  awful  blow  to  him,   though  he 


"FLUFFUMS"  239 

attempted  to  take  it  fighting.  Until  the  prospect 
vanished,  he  had  not  known  how  entirely  he  had  been 
relying  on  it,  and  now  his  scanty  means,  his  obscurity, 
and  his  thirty  years,  combined  to  make  a  situation 
that  crushed  him.  He  felt  suddenly  tired  and  hope- 
less. He  wanted  to  get  on — to  be  famous.  Instead, 
he  was  living  in  one  room  in  Bloomsbury,  and  dining 
for  a  shilling.  It  had  been  endurable  while  he  had 
something  to  look  forward  to — even  he  had  not 
thought  about  it  much  then,  accepting  the  life  cheer- 
fully— but  after  dwelling  for  eighteen  months  in  a 
castle  in  Spain,  it  made  his  heart  ache.  He  felt  like 
an  exile  who  has  dreamt  of  Piccadilly  and  wakened 
to  the  Cape. 

No  further  possibility  of  greatness  occurred  to 
lighten  his  gloom,  and  he  plodded  on  drearily.  It 
said  something  for  his  sweetness  of  disposition  that 
he  did  not  vent  his  disappointment  in  spiteful  criti- 
cisms for  the  minor  periodical  at  this  period.  He 
used  to  sit  in  the  stalls,  and  clap  his  hands,  and  his 
"copy"  was  as  fair  as  usual.  If  he  envied  the  blissful 
beings  whose  names  were  blazoned  to  all  London 
on  the  hoardings  and  the  omnibuses,  he  kept  it  to 
himself,  and  refrained  from  remarking  that  "the 
reception  of  the  latest  musical  comedy  was  another 
instance  of  what  rubbish  may  hit  the  public  taste." 

So  things  went  on  until  a  misfortune  happened. 
The  minor  periodical  died  of  a  weak  circulation,  and 
Mr.  Frederick  Ludlow  was  out  of  office. 


240  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

The  cessation  of  a  salary,  small  as  it  had  been, 
was  a  serious  matter  to  him.  He  made  a  gallant 
struggle;  he  wrote  sheafs  of  short  stories,  and  sent 
them  out  broadcast,  but,  as  most  of  the  papers  that 
accepted  them  kept  him  waiting  six  months  for  his 
money,  his  industry  did  not  avail  him  much. 

He  got  into  arrears  with  his  landlady,  and  lay 
in  bed  half  the  day  because  he  felt  his  hunger  less 
there.  He  often  dined  on  a  pipe,  because  it  was 
cheaper  than  a  chop,  and  he  pawned  his  watch  and 
chain,  and  a  ring  that  had  belonged  to  his  father, 
and  his  evening-suit,  which  he  did  not  require  any 
more. 

He  had  been — or  had  called  himself — a  literary 
man  for  so  long  now,  that  it  was  a  process  with  him 
to  realise  that  his  pen  was  useless.  He  hoped  against 
hope  until  the  humiliating  truth  forced  itself  into 
acknowledgment  by  sheer  persistency.  Well,  his 
writing  would  not  keep  him — it  was  obvious,  he 
owned  it!  His  difficulties  were  not  temporary;  they 
had  come  to  stay.  He  was  a  failure,  a  complete, 
ignominious  failure,  and — there  was  nothing  for  it 
— he  would  have  to  go  back  to  the  stage ! 

He  was  ashamed  to  beg  the  influence  of  the  bar- 
rister who  had  helped  him  to  get  his  foot  in  years 
ago.  The  barrister  was  quite  a  big  man  now,  and 
he  had  not  got  on  a  bit!  No,  he  could  not  do  it. 
He  called  on  all  the  agents  instead,  and  quoted  his 
experience.  He  wrote  to  his  old  managers;  and  he 


FLUFFUMS  241 

tramped  the  hot  pavements  of  the  Strand  daily,  try- 
ing to  look  cheerful  when  he  met  an  actor  of  his 
acquaintance,  but  nervous  of  stopping  to  talk  to  him 
for  long,  because  he  could  not  afford  to  ask  him  to 
"come  and  have  a  drink." 

The  last  engagement  that  he  was  able  to  mention 
was  so  very  remote  that  he  found  it  almost  as  hard 
to  return  to  the  boards  as  it  had  been  in  the  first 
instance  for  him  to  get  on  to  them.  And  he  was 
older — his  appearance  had  not  improved  with  time. 
Inconsistently,  too,  and  as  if  Nature  had  been  anx- 
ious to  add  insult  to  the  world's  injury,  he  had  put 
on  flesh.  He  was  now  stout.  With  his  tubby  figure, 
and  his  bristling  hair,  and  his  mild  little  eyes  peering 
out  of  a  weary  face,  he  was  as  unpromising  an  appli- 
cant for  a  "part"  as  any  stage-manager  was  likely 
to  receive.  People  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 
Everywhere  he  went  he  was  told  there  was  "no 
vacancy."  His  exit  was  always  the  signal  for  sub- 
dued laughter,  and  it  was  remarked  "how  funny  it 
was  that  a  man  like  that  should  be  bothering  the 
agents !"  But  it  was  not  funny  for  Freddy — not 
at  all. 

At  last  he  did  secure  an  engagement.  It  was 
an  awful,  a  terrible,  descent  from  what  he  had  ex- 
pected; but  he  took  it  because  he  had  to  take  it  or 
starve. 

He  "went  out"  with  the  touring  company  of  a 
London  success,  as  prompter,  and  to  play  three  or 


242  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

four  small  parts,  for  twenty-five  shillings  a  week. 
During  the  first  act  he  stood  in  the  wings  with  the 
book  in  his  hand;  and  in  the  second  he  appeared  on 
the  stage  as  the  Foreman  of  a  jury.  For  half  of 
the  third  he  was  in  the  wings  again,  and  then  he  had 
a  few  lines  as  an  Arab  sheik,  and  so  on. 

They  "opened"  in  Wigan;  if  anything  could  have 
intensified  his  depression,  Wigan  would  have  done 
it,  but  nothing  could.  A  touring  company  has  more 
grades  and  sets  than  society  in  Bedford,  and  lowest 
of  all  who  figure  in  the  programme — ignored  by  the 
Lover,  and  scorned  by  the  Chambermaid — is  the 
prompter  who  plays  small  parts.  To  be  sure,  the 
prompter,  in  his  turn,  may  look  down  upon  the 
baggageman,  but  Freddy  was  denied  this  compensa- 
tion because  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  look  down 
on  anyone. 

He  went  back  to  his  lodging  after  the  first  per- 
formance miserable  and  exhausted.  The  constant 
and  hurried  changes  of  costume,  coupled  with  his 
nervousness — for  the  stage  was  so  new  to  him  again 
that  he  was  nervous  even  with  half  a  dozen  lines — 
had  thoroughly  worn  him  out.  It  was  not  until  the 
following  night  that  he  really  began  to  take  stock 
of  his  surroundings — or  that  he  knew  either  how 
wretched  he  was  going  to  be. 

His  nervousness  was  observed,  and  provided  mate- 
rial for  excellent  jests.  He  was  nicknamed  "Fluf- 
fums,"  which,  in  theatrical  slang,  signifies  a  gentle- 


"FLUFFUMS"  243 

man  who  "fluffs,"  or  stumbles  in  his  part.  He  was 
really  such  a  curious  little  man  that  it  was  refreshing 
to  chaff  him !  He  might  have  escaped,  otherwise, 
as  being  lowly  and  beneath  one's  notice,  but  the 
Heavy  Mother  had  declared  he  was  "consequential," 
and  the  adjective  was  found  descriptive;  and  a  "con- 
sequential prompter"  was  an  anomaly  that  could  not 
be  tolerated  for  a  moment. 

Freddy  grew  used  to  the  hasty  "changes"  as  the 
week  went  on,  and  he  schooled  himself  to  stand  in 
the  wings  holding  the  'script,  without  wincing;  he 
grew  used  to  everything  except  the  raillery  and  dis- 
dain. When  he  reflected  that  a  few  months  since 
he  had  lolled  in  the  West  End  stalls,  a  dramatic 
critic,  and  that  then  his  companions  of  to-day  would 
have  bowed,  and  scraped,  and  contemplated  him 
with  reverence,  his  soul  revolted.  But  he  could  not 
hint  at  his  former  grandeurs — that  would  be  ridicu- 
lous. He  was  now  a  prompter,  and  must  be  content 
to  be  regarded  as  one.  What  he  had  been  once  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

From  his  humble  position  in  the  wings  he  com- 
manded a  good  view  of  the  stage,  and  by-and-by, 
when  everybody  was  sure  of  his  part,  and  there  was 
no  need  of  a  prompter's  services  whatever,  a  pecul- 
iarity was  remarked  in  "Fluffums."  It  was  pointed 
out  that  he  was  never  absent  from  his  post  during 
Miss  Bellamy's  big  scene.  No  matter  that  she,  like 
the  rest,  was  letter-perfect  now,  no  matter  how  swift 


244  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

a  toilette  it  might  necessitate!  No  sooner  did  the 
scene  approach  than  down  "Fluffums"  bustled,  and 
stood  in  the  prompt-entrance,  looking  at  her  with 
eyes  that  never  wandered  from  her  face. 

And,  of  course,  it  only  meant  one  thing,  though 
that  thing  was  so  wild,  and  ludicrous,  and  unprece- 
dented, that  it  was  some  time  before  the  company 
could  credit  it.  The  prompter  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  leading  lady! 

He  only  lived  to  be  noticed  by  her.  He  was 
jealous  of  everybody  she  spoke  to — on  the  stage  and 
off.  He  even  envied  the  property-man,  for  there 
was  sometimes  occasion  for  Miss  Bellamy  to  address 
a  few  words  to  the  property-man.  To  himself  alone, 
the  futile  prompter,  she  never  had  need  to  speak, 
nor  did  he  dare  to  devise  an  excuse  for  claiming  her 
attention. 

She  was  pretty,  Maud  Bellamy,  and  rather  a  clever 
actress,  albeit  she  was  still  in  the  provinces,  and 
admitted  to  being  twenty-six.  Her  vicissitudes,  too, 
would  have  filled  an  interesting  chapter,  but  she 
had  risen  to  dazzling  heights  compared  to  Freddy, 
and  when  somebody  told  her  that  she  had  "made 
a  conquest,  and  his  name  was  Frederick  Ludlow," 
she  did  not  even  know  who  was  meant.  After  the 
joke  was  explained  she  smiled  faintly,  and  begged  the 
other  "please  not  to  be  so  absurd" — because  she 
was  a  personage.  But,  all  the  same,  she  looked  at 


"FLUFFUMS"  245 

Freddy  the  next  time  she  passed  him — because  she 
was  a  woman. 

And  henceforward  Freddy  was  conscious  that 
Miss  Bellamy  knew  he  was  watching  her  during  her 
big  scene;  and  Miss  Bellamy  would  instinctively 
glance  across  at  the  prompt-entrance  as  she  tottered 
through  the  O.P.  archway  in  the  snowstorm,  to 
assure  herself  of  his  presence.  Once  he  was  not 
there — he  could  not  help  it — and  when  he  met  her 
in  the  wings  later,  waiting  to  go  on  in  the  last  act, 
she  stopped  and  asked  him  the  reason. 

"Mr.  Ludlow,  do  you  know  you  nearly  made  me 
forget  my  lines?"  she  said.  "I  missed  you,  and  it 
made  me  nervous." 

Not  so  nervous  as  he !  His  heart  thumped,  and 
he  stammered  at  her  with  a  flush  on  his  face. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon — I  was  very  sorry!  Mr. 
Shorey  couldn't  play  to-night,  you  know,  and  his 
understudy  had  to  go  on,  and  /  had  to  take  the  under- 
study's part.  I  was  'changing'  at  the  time  of  your 


scene." 


She  nodded,  smiling. 

"It  doesn't  matter;  I  wondered  what  had  become 
of  you,  that  was  all.  It  is  a  very  good  house,  isn't 
it?"  And  she  passed  on. 

It  did  not  occupy  thirty  seconds,  but  it  was  an 
event  that  sent  him  home  happy,  and  it  was  the 
forerunner  of  other  fragmentary  conversations  which 
made  him  happier  still.  She  knew  he  was  attracted 


246  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

by  her,  and  she  saw  he  was  a  gentleman,  and,  though 
his  position  in  the  company  prevented  her  taking 
his  devotion  seriously,  it  interested  her,  and  was 
not  unpleasant.  It  seemed  to  her  rather  pathetic 
that  a  man  of  education  should  be  fulfilling  such 
ignoble  duties,  and  she  was  sorry  for  him.  Not  very 
sorry,  and  not  very  interested,  because  her  ambi- 
tions did  not  leave  much  room  in  her  mind  for  sym- 
pathies of  any  sort,  but  just  a  little,  yes,  or  she  would 
not  have  provoked  comment  by  condescending  to 
talk  to  him. 

That  was  at  the  beginning,  and  the  development 
was  somewhat  slow,  because  Freddy  felt  so  handi- 
capped; but  by  degrees  he  taught  himself  to  throw 
off  the  feeling  of  restraint,  and  by  degrees  Miss 
Bellamy  found  that  she  was  giving  him  encourage- 
ment. 

Still  she  meant  nothing  by  it;  only  now  she  was 
treating  him  as  an  equal,  and  flashing  just  such  a 
glance  at  him  sometimes  as  she  would  have  shot  at 
the  leading-man,  or  any  other  admirer  who  stood 
on  a  level  with  her.  It  was  not  considerate,  and 
she  knew  it  was  not;  it  was  not  dignified,  and  she 
knew  that,  too;  and  so  she  lectured  herself  in  her 
dressing-room  one  night,  in  the  process  of  changing 
her  frock,  and  then  adopted  a  manner  so  very  distant 
towards  him  that,  after  twenty-four  hours  of  suffer- 
ing, he  went  up  to  her  and  begged  for  an  explanation. 

"Have  I  offended  you  in  any  way,  Miss  Bellamy?" 


"FLUFFUMS"  247 

She  tried  to  look  as  if  she  did  not  understand. 

"Offended  me?    No — what  makes  you  ask?" 

"I  was  afraid  that  perhaps  I  had.  You — you  are 
not  being  so  kind  to  me;  you  are  different." 

"I  did  not  know." 

"No?    I  have  felt  it.  .  .  .  You  aren't  angry?" 

"Why  should  I  be?    Of  course  not.    But " 

"Go  on!" 

"Do  you  think  it  is  very  good  for  you  that  we 
should  talk  together  quite  as  much  as  we  have,  Mr. 
Ludlow?  Isn't  it  better  that  you  should  not  see  so 
much  of  me?" 

He  stood  gazing  helplessly  at  the  stage;  his  uncon- 
cealed misery  was  very  flattering  to  her. 

"I  feared  it  meant  that."  he  said.  "Somebody 
has " 

"Somebody  has  done  nothing — I  have  been  think- 
ing myself.  And  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  have  not  been  sensible.  If  I  did  not  like  you  I 
should  not  say  it;  I  should  not  mind.  But  I  do  like 
you,  and — there's  my  cue !" 

They  were  behind  a  canvas  door,  and  she  darted 
forward  and  opened  it,  and  made  her  entrance  with 
a  peal  of  laughter  which  jarred  upon  him  this  eve- 
ning, although  he  knew  it  was  in  the  part. 

When  the  curtain  had  fallen,  and  all  the  players 
were  preparing  to  go  home,  Freddy  waited  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladies'  staircase  for  Miss  Bellamy  to 
come  down.  He  asked  her  if  he  might  walk  as  far 


24$  THIS    STAGE    OF    *OOLS 

as  her  lodgings  with  her,  so  that  they  could  discuss 
the  matter  quietly,  and,  as  she  had  already  displayed 
all  the  wisdom  possible  to  her  in  such  a  connection, 
she  said  he  might,  and  he  did,  and  the  result  was  a 
foregone  conclusion. 

She  said  she  should  always  be  his  friend,  and  it 
was  because  she  was  his  friend  that  she  wished  him 
to  see  less  of  her.  And  he  said  that  to  have  her 
friendship  was  the  greatest  earthly  honour  and  hap- 
piness that  he  dared  aspire  to,  and  so  might  he  not 
talk  to  her  just  as  much  in  future,  and  even  more? 
There  was  really  nothing  to  be  urged  against  it,  put 
like  that — it  was  simplicity  itself;  and  she  let  him 
hold  her  hand  for  a  minute  and  a  half  at  the  gate, 
while  telling  him  he  was  only  to  think  of  her  as  a 
sister. 

Maud  Bellamy  had  satisfied  her  conscience,  and 
from  that  date  she  flirted  with  "Fluffums"  wickedly. 
It  was  not  an  honest,  open  flirtation,  it  was  a  sly, 
sneaking,  insidious  thing,  much  more  deadly,  which 
did  its  damage  under  an  alias.  She  called  it  their 
"interest  in  each  other,"  and  their  "interest  in  each 
other"  used  to  take  him  to  her  apartments  to  tea 
on  an  average  three  times  a  week.  He  brought  her 
flowers,  and  she  would  wear  them  at  the  theatre  in 
the  first  act;  and  he  told  her  something  of  his  life, 
and  she  listened  with  deep,  attentive  eyes;  and  he 
cried  to  her  how  wretched  his  present  position  made 
him,  and  she  comforted  him  with  the  "platonic" 


FLUFFUMS  249 

pressure  of  slim  white  fingers — affecting  not  to  under- 
stand that  it  principally  made  him  wretched  because 
it  placed  her  out  of  his  reach. 

And  meanwhile  he  thought  her  an  angel,  though 
socially  she  was  only  a  vain,  agreeable,  and  rather 
selfish  woman,  who  was  amusing  herself  with  him. 
Almost  every  woman  not  positively  tedious  has  the 
desire  to  be  unconventional  at  some  period  or  other, 
and — conventionality  being,  after  all,  a  relative 
standard — for  a  country  actress  to  be  unconventional 
is  difficult.  Miss  Bellamy  had  overcome  the  diffi- 
culty when  she  determined  to  flirt  with  the  prompter. 

How  long  the  novelty  would  have  pleased  her, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  who  shall  say?  Not 
many  weeks,  probably,  at  best;  but  as  it  was,  the 
end  of  Freddy's  illusion  was  precipitated  by  a  new 
arrival  on  the  scene. 

The  leading-man  was  transferred  to  another  com- 
pany, and  his  successor  was  quite  an  Adonis,  who 
once  had  actually  played  in  London.  The  glamour 
of  the  metropolis  clung  to  him  still,  and  the  cut  of 
his  numerous  suits  of  clothes  was  positively  fasci- 
nating. And  he  paid  marked  attentions  to  Miss 
Bellamy,  and  the  lady  did  not  repulse  him.  Freddy 
beheld  it  all,  sick  at  soul. 

Francis  Knight,  the  new  leading-man,  and  Miss 
Maud  Bellamy  used  to  stand  and  talk  together,  with 
low  voices,  in  the  wings  and  passages,  and  one  eve- 
ning, when  Freddy  came  upon  them,  quite  by  acci- 


250  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

dent,  Miss  Bellamy  frowned  at  him,  and  turned 
aside  impatiently.  As  he  passed  on,  she  evidently 
said  something  about  him,  for  her  companion  burst 
into  laughter,  and  the  low-comedian,  who  had  ob- 
served the  incident,  winked  at  the  "villain"  with 
appreciation. 

Then  the  chaff  took  another  form,  and  it  was: 
"Fluff urns,  beware  of  jealousy — it  is  a  green-eyed 
monster!"  or  "Fluffums,  why  so  merry?"  or  "Look 
at  Fluffums'  nose — does  it  hurt  you  now  it's  out  of 
joint?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  the  time  will  come,  no  matter, 
Fluffums!  Pistols  and  coffee  for  four!"  Which 
was  all  very  witty,  but,  as  Freddy  was  not  a  boy, 
scarcely  in  the  best  of  taste. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  realise  that  her  pretences 
had  meant  nothing — that  her  earnestness  and  sym- 
pathy had  been  all  humbug — even  though  he  was 
invited  to  tea  no  longer,  and  often  met  her  walking 
with  Knight  in  the  streets.  It  is  doubtful,  indeed, 
if  he  would  have  realised  it  when  he  did  but  that  she 
very  nearly  told  him  so.  Of  course  it  was  his  "fault" 
— it  was  one  of  those  situations  where  the  man  is 
wrong  whatever  he  does.  Of  course  he  had  "brought 
these  hard  words  on  himself,"  and  she  had  been 
mercifully  anxious  "to  spare  him  the  pain  of  the 
interview!"  He  had  gone  to  her  lodgings  and  ap- 
pealed to  her. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Ludlow,"  said  the  leading-lady, 
with  uplifted  eyebrows,  "I  don't  know  what  you 


FLUFFUMS  251 

complain  of!  I  can't  permit  any  friend  to  dictate 
to  me  which  members  of  the  company  I  may  speak 
to." 

Then  he  had  done  more.  The  "secret,"  that  had 
never  been  a  secret,  was  openly  avowed,  and  he  told 
her  that  he  loved  her,  that  he  worshipped  her,  that 
her  coldness  was  breaking  his  heart.  He  declared 
that  he  was  not  her  "friend" — had  never  been  her 
"friend" — and  that  she  knew  it  as  well  as  he. 

Miss  Bellamy  stared  at  him  in  a  long  silence. 

"So,"  she  said,  slowly,  "this  is  my  return  for 
consenting  to  believe  you !  I  warned  you  that  I  was 
being  unwise,  and  I  let  you  persuade  me  against  my 
own  judgment.  Well,  1  should  have  known  better; 
it  serves  me  right!" 

"Maud!"  gasped  Freddy. 

"Please  don't  call  me  'Maud,'  and  please  don't  let 
us  have  any  discussion !  1  made  a  mistake,  and  there 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  I  was  your  very  good 
friend,  and  I  hoped  I  might  remain  so;  but  you 
give  yourself  the  airs  of  a  husband.  And  something 
else :  when  you  come  spying  round  the  theatre  after 
me,  to  see  what  man  I  am  talking  to,  you  do  a  thing 
I  don't  allow." 

"Spying?"  he  protested.  "I?  Oh,  I  have 
never " 

"If  it  hurts  your  feelings  to  be  told  the  truth, 
you  have  only  yourself  to  blame  for  it.  You  leave 
me  no  alternative  when  you  come  here  and  reproach 


252,  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

me.  Now,  good  afternoon,  Mr.  Ludlow.  I  am 
sorry  my  friendship  was  so  misplaced.  I  may  say 
I  think  you  might  have  shown  a  little  more  gratitude 
for  it — considering!" 

The  colour  sank  from  his  plain  face  as  if  she  had 
lashed  him  across  it.  She  met  his  gaze  stonily, 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  sneered — as  she  did  at 
the  "villain"  in  the  piece. 

"Please  shut  the  door  quietly  after  you,"  said  the 
leading  lady;  "my  head  aches." 

He  went — enlightenment  had  come,  and  the  dark- 
ness had  fallen;  and  he  was  the  Foreman  of  the 
jury,  and  the  Arab  sheik,  and  the  rest  of  it  the  same 
as  usual  that  night.  But  every  nerve  in  his  body 
was  tense  with  pain,  and  if  Miss  Bellamy  had  known 
all  he  was  feeling,  perhaps  when  she  came  into  the 
greenroom  and  found  him  crouching  there,  woebe- 
gone, in  a  property-chair,  she  would  have  refrained 
from  remarking  audibly  that  she  had  "always  under- 
stood a  greenroom  was  reserved  for  the  Principals." 

He  got  up  and  walked  out,  with  a  look  towards 
her  like  a  kicked  dog,  and  she  surveyed  her  figure 
in  the  pier-glass,  and  powdered  her  nose  again  com- 
placently. 

How  far  they  were  from  suspecting  the  develop- 
ment that  twelve  more  hours  would  bring ! 

When  Freddy  rose  the  following  morning  it  was 
Saturday,  and  Saturday  being  treasury,  it  was  neces- 
sary for  him,  like  everybody  else,  to  present  himself 


"FLUFFUMS"  253 

at  the  theatre  at  one  o'clock.  He  felt  so  broken,  he 
had  suffered  so  much  more  keenly  about  her  than 
she  was  worth,  that  before  meeting  her  again  he 
went  into  a  bar  to  try  if  he  could  pull  himself  to- 
gether with  some  brandy.  The  Era  was  lying  on 
the  counter,  in  front  of  him,  and  mechanically, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  he  began  to 
turn  the  leaves.  As  he  did  so,  the  title  of  //  Woman's 
Crime  leapt  out  of  a  page  in  capital  letters,  and 
struck  him  in  the  eyes. 

It  was  being  produced — in  London! — at  the 
Royal  West-Central  Theatre !  The  house  was 
"Now  closed  for  rehearsals  of  A  Woman's  Crime, 
by  Messrs.  J.  V.  King  and  Frederick  Ludlow."  The 
production  would  introduce  a  surprising  mechanical 
effect.  There  had  never  been  so  strong  a  company 
before — even  at  the  West  Central — as  the  one  which 
the  enterprising  management  had  secured  for  A 
Woman's  Crime.  So  much  was  expected  of  the 
piece,  that  the  largest  sum  of  money  ever  paid  be- 
fore the  first  night  had  already  been  offered  to  the 
authors  for  the  American  rights.  And,  of  course, 
his  collaborator  had  written  to  his  old  address  more 
than  a  month  ago,  to  tell  him  all  about  it,  and  the 
letter  had  never  reached  him. 

He  grasped  the  paper  with  both  hands.  Fires 
flashed  in  the  sunshine,  and  he  thought  he  was  going 
to  fall  off  the  three-legged  stool.  He  was  no  longer 
"Fluffums,"  the  despised  prompter.  He  was  a  Lon- 


254  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

don  playwright,  a  personage  to  be  conciliated;  a  few 
months  more,  and  he  would  be  a  rich  man  1  A  sob 
shook  him — of  joy  and  thanksgiving,  such  as  he  had 
never  known  in  his  life,  and  he  reeled  out  into  the 
street  as  if  he  were  drunk. 

The  company  were  all  on  the  stage  when  he  had 
composed  himself  sufficiently  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance, and  he  noticed  that,  as  he  entered,  everybody 
looked  towards  him  with  a  questioning  air.  Some- 
one in  the  group  was  holding  a  copy  of  the  Era,  and 
presently  Mr.  Knight  crossed  over  to  him,  and  the 
others  hushed  their  conversation  to  listen. 

"Any  relation  to  the  author,  Ludlow?"  said  his 
rival,  doubtfully.  "I  see  King  has  been  collaborating 
with  a  man  of  your  name  for  the  West  Central." 

"He  has  been  collaborating  with  me"  said  Freddy, 
with  great  distinctness.  "I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
leave  you  all  very  shortly,  to  superintend  the  final 
rehearsals." 

Yes,  and  Miss  Bellamy  was  among  the  group,  and 
heard  his  answer!  And  their  eyes  met,  and  then 
she  turned  away,  with  a  look  on  her  face  that  made 
him  feel  sorry  for  her  in  the  midst  of  his  triumph. 
It  does  not  often  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  provincial  actress 
to  have  a  London  dramatist  in  love  with  her,  and 
as  she  thought  of  what  Freddy  could  have  done  to 
push  her  forward,  and  certainly  would  have  done,  it 
needed  all  her  self-control  not  to  burst  into  tears. 

He  was  not  chaffed  or  slighted  any  more  while 


"FLUFFUMS"  255 

he  remained  with  them.  He  was  congratulated  vio- 
lently, and  slapped  on  the  back,  and  called  "dear 
boy" ;  and  he  was  pressed  to  have  whiskies-and-soda, 
and  asked  if  he  would  "use  his  influence"  on  various 
people's  behalf.  Never  was  there  such  a  startling 
change  known  as  that  which  occurred  in  everybody's 
bearing  towards  the  prompter !  There  was  only  one 
person  who  did  not  come  up  to  him  and  wring  his 
hand,  and  "hope  he  would  not  forget  his  old  friends 
in  his  prosperity" ;  there  was  only  one  actress  in  the 
provinces  who,  for  years  afterwards,  was  remarked 
to  show  a  strong  distaste  when  a  certain  subject  of 
theatrical  interest  was  mentioned.  Her  name  was 
Miss  Maud  Bellamy,  and  the  subject  was  the  Rise 
of  "Fluffums." 


SKETCHES 


TO   MISS   VERSCHOYLE 

DECIDEDLY  one  of  the  plainest  women  you  ever  saw 
in  your  life,  but  when  she  began  to  sing  you  forgot 
her  face.  You  thought  of  your  ideal  woman  whom 
you  had  never  met — of  the  books  you  meant  to  write 
— of  the  country  dimpling  under  an  April  sunrise — 
of  anything  you  loved  or  yearned  to  love.  And 
then,  as  she  continued  to  sing,  you  thought  of  Miss 
Carmichael  herself,  and  she  made  your  heart  stir 
just  as  if  she  had  been  beautiful,  and  for  thirty  sec- 
onds after  she  rose  from  the  piano  you  had  to  strug- 
gle against  an  impulse  to  fall  at  her  feet. 

I  ought  not  to  have  gone  there.  To  me  a  woman's 
first  duty  is  to  be  good-looking.  She  may,  of  course, 
do  more — she  may,  for  instance,  be  lovely — but  at 
any  rate  she  should  be  good-looking,  if  she  would 
justify  her  existence  in  my  eyes,  and  Miss  Carmich- 
ael's  spell,  brief  as  it  was,  was  dangerous.  It  dis- 
pleased and  bewildered  me  when  I  "came  to."  It 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  been  behind  a  horse  over 
which  I  had  nearly  lost  control.  Yet  how  could 
I  deny  myself  the  delight  of  listening  to  her  divine 
voice  I  And,  for  that  matter,  the  evil  effect  was 

259 


26d  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

delicious  also  while  it  lasted — something  like  that 
which  one  imagines  opium  or  hashish  eating  must 
produce.  Think,  I  could  say  to  myself  whenever  I 
would,  "To-day  I  will  go  and  be  breathlessly  in  love 
for  a  minute;  for  the  space  of  one  minute  I  will 
taste  the  excitement  of  adoring  a  woman  with  all 
my  being!"  A  moral  drunkenness,  a  vice,  if  you 
desire  to  call  it  so,  but  one  which  few  men  are  able 
to  command!  I  was  constantly  swearing  I  would 
give  it  up,  only  to  find  myself,  a  week  afterwards,  at 
the  door  of  the  Earl's  Court  flat  again.  And  things 
went  on  like  this  for  six  months,  when  I  met  Norah 
Verschoyle  at  Hampton. 

We  were  both  staying  with  the  Liddingtons.  She 
did  not  take  much  notice  of  me  at  first — perhaps 
that  was  what  stimulated  my  interest  in  her — but 
I  was  sensible  of  the  warmest  admiration  the  moment 
we  were  introduced.  She  was  very,  very  pretty,  inso- 
lently pretty,  if  I  may  use  the  term,  and  she  wore 
big,  shady  hats,  and  white  frocks,  and  her  hands 
were  the  softest  little  darlings  that  ever  played  with 
a  punt  pole. 

I  used  to  look  at  Miss  Verschoyle's  hands  and 
wonder  what  it  would  feel  like  to  hold  them.  Fool- 
ish people  may  suppose  that  it  feels  the  same  to  hold 
one  woman's  hand  as  another's,  but  that  is  quite  a 
mistake.  It  is  different  every  time,  or  we  should 
seldom  hear  of  a  man  being  engaged  more  than 
once  in  his  life. 


TO   MISS   VERSCHOYLE  261 

On  a  certain  Thursday  afternoon,  after  our  ac- 
quaintance had  progressed,  and  I  had  sculled  her 
down  to  the  backwater,  I  sat  with  my  gaze  riveted 
on  those  hands  of  hers.  They  lay  in  her  lap,  and 
I  observed  that  they  had  browned  a  trifle  with  expo- 
sure to  the  sun.  The  delicate  veins  were  as  blue  as 
the  sea  round  the  island  of  Madeira*  and  they  were, 
if  anything,  more  kissable  than  before. 

"Isn't  it  heavenly?"  she  murmured. 

I  agreed;  it  was  heavenly.  "Don't  you  want  to 
talk?" 

"What  shall  I  say?"  she  asked. 

"Anything  you  like — or  nothing.  For  myself,  I 
am  perfectly  content." 

"Then  I'll  dream." 

"Do!" 

Her  eyes  drooped — re-opened,  and  met  my  own, 
which  had  wandered  to  the  white  lids;  I  thought 
she  looked  conscious.  She  unfurled  her  sunshade. 
The  fascination  of  the  hands  was  upon  me  again. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  I  said. 

I  touched  one — it  was  warm,  thrilling;  it  sent  a 
shock  up  my  arm  like  an  electric  battery.  I  loved 
her,  and  I  detained  it  in  a  clasp. 

She  uttered  my  name  with  remonstrance  and  sur- 
prise. I  had  gone  too  far  to  retreat,  even  had  I 
wished  to  do  so.  Her  fingers  and  my  lips  met,  and 
my  lips  were  scorched.  Her  face  glowed,  and  soft- 
ened. I  meant  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  I  fore- 


262'  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

saw  that  I  should  not  plead  in  vain.  At  that  very 
moment  Lady  Liddington  was  heard  calling  to  us 
from  the  bank,  and  the  opportunity  was  past.  She 
had  brought  me  a  telegram  recalling  me  to  town. 

We  all  went  back  to  the  house  together,  nor  was 
there  any  chance  between  luncheon  and  the  time  my 
train  started  for  me  to  speak  to  Miss  Verschoyle 
privately  again. 

However,  we  understood  each  other — I  was  sure 
of  it;  and  I  travelled  up  to  Waterloo  with  exhilara- 
tion. I  called  on  the  solicitor  whom  I  had  to  see, 
and  arranged  to  affix  my  signature  to  a  necessary 
document  the  first  thing  the  following  morning. 
Then  I  should  be  free  to  return  to  Hampton,  and 
could  propose  as  orthodoxly  as  was  required.  Al- 
most I  whistled  as  I  bent  my  steps  towards  my  cham- 
bers leaving  him.  Norah  was  fond  of  me — was 
waiting  for  me,  ready  to  say  "yes."  Rapturous 
reflection!  And  what  jolly  rings  there  were  in  the 
jewellers'  windows! 

I  stopped,  and  inspected  one  more  closely.  As  I 
did  so,  someone  exclaimed:  "Mr.  Craven,  how  d'ye 
do !"  and  turning,  I  saw  Miss  Carmichael. 

I  thought  how  dowdy  she  looked  as  I  responded 
to  her  greeting.  She  was  going  home,  and  I  offered 
to  see  her  as  far  as  the  Temple  Station. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked,  as  we  walked 
along.  "Do  you  know  that  it  is  more  than  a  month 
since  we  have  seen  anything  of  you?" 


TO    MISS    VERSCHOYLE  263 

I  explained  that  I  was  staying  on  the  river. 
Though  she  was  so  plain,  she  was  an  amusing  talker, 
and  when  she  begged  me,  if  I  had  no  better  occu- 
pation, to  accompany  her  to  the  flat,  and  have  some 
tea,  I  was  not  inclined  to  refuse. 

I  went,  and  when  tea  was  over  I  said,  "Won't 
you  sing?"  I  was  in  the  mood  for  music,  more  espe- 
cially for  Miss  Carmichael's  music.  She  smiled  as- 
sent, and  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  while  I  lay 
peacefully  back  in  an  armchair  by  the  window.  She 
never  wanted  one  to  turn  the  leaves  for  her;  that 
was  one  of  the  charms  of  her  performance. 

"What  will  you  have?"  she  said,  glancing  at  me 
across  her  shoulder. 

I  hesitated.  "  'Whatever  you  do  will  sure  be 
right,'  "  I  hummed. 

"Oh,  please!''  she  murmured,  with  a  mock  air  of 
suffering — she  could  not  tolerate  the  drawing-room 
ballad— "Do  you  know  Bizet's  'Vielle  Chanson'?" 

She  struck  a  few  chords,  with  an  indifferent  touch, 
and  then  her  voice  rose.  And  her  voice  called 
"Norah!  Norah!"  and  showed  me  the  backwater 
and  the  boat  anew.  The  trees  swayed,  and  the  birds 
in  the  branches  began  to  twitter,  and  the  water 
sparkled,  and  my  heart  was  aching  so  with  love  that 
I  wanted  to  lay  my  head  on  my  dear  one's  breast, 
and  feel  those  fragrant  little  hands  stroking  my 
hair. 

Suddenly  I  was  again  in  the  parlour;  the  last  note 


264,  THIS   STAGE   OF.   FOOLS 

had  Hied,   and  Miss  Carmichael  was   looking  an 
inquiry. 

"Don't  stop,  I  beg  you !  Go  on,  do !" 
She  obeyed.  But  why  did  she  not  take  me  as 
before  to  the  river?  I  remained  in  the  Earl's  Court 
room  this  time,  and  by  degrees  I  was  satisfied  not 
to  leave  it.  I  was  listening  with  trembling  nerves 
to  Miss  Carmichael  herself,  or  rather  not  herself — 
to  the  other  Miss  Carmichael,  who  had  always  mag- 
netised me  while  she  sang.  She  drifted  from  the 
"Solvieg's  Lied"  of  Grieg  into  some  Gipsy  Songs  of 
Dvorak's ;  and  I  worshipped  her !  Drunk  or  sober, 
I  said  that  to  hold  this  woman  in  my  arms,  and  to 
feel  her  breathing  there,  would  be  the  greatest  con- 
summation of  my  life.  Never  before  had  the  mas- 
tery she  had  established  over  me  been  so  irresistible 
and  complete.  I  left  my  chair,  and  leant  on  the 
piano,  gazing  down  upon  her.  She  had  drawn  me 
there  with  her  voice,  and  now  she  pulled  me  closer 
with  her  eyes.  I  did  not  think  her  beautiful — even 
in  my  madness  I  knew  that  she  was  ugly — but  there 
was  a  fascination  in  her  ugliness  that  I  was  unable 
to  withstand.  I  looked  at  her,  consumed  with  a 
fever.  I  forgot  that  her  dress  was  ill-fitting  and 
shabby;  I  forgot  that  when  she  left  off  singing  she 
would  be  merely  a  plain  and  ordinary  person  again. 
While  she  did  sing,  she  was  as  potent  as  Helen  or 
Cleopatra,  and  I  adored  her. 

As  she  finished  I  caught  her  to  me. 


TO   MISS    VERSCHOYLE  265 

"I  love  you,"  I  said,  "didn't  you  know?  I  have 
loved  you  always !"  I  thought  it  was  true. 

It  was  a  grand  moment! 

But  now  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  Carmichael,  and 
Norah  must  be  wondering  why  I  do  not  return  to 
Hampton.  She  will  consider  I  have  behaved  very 
badly;  two  men  whom  I  invited  to  dinner,  and  con- 
fided in,  consider  I  have  behaved  very  badly.  No- 
body seems  to  realise  that  I  could  not  help  myself — 
that  I  am  the  victim  of  circumstances  over  which  I 
had  no  control.  It  is  in  the  faint  hope  of  justifying 
myself  to  Miss  Verschoyle  that  I  have  written  this 
narrative.  The  danger  of  my  Siren  seeing  it  is  small 
— besides,  if  she  does,  she  may  be  offended  with  me, 
and  let  me  off. 


POSTHUMOUS 

THERE  have  been  moments,  in  thinking  of  her,  when 
I  have  found  it  impossible  to  realise  that  she  was 
going  to  belong  to  me  one  day.  I  suppose  most 
men  happily  engaged  have  known  that  "too-wonder- 
ful-to-be-true" sensation,  but  with  myself  I  must  now 
call  the  feeling  a  presentiment.  It  is  a  question 
whether  I  should  have  the  right  to  marry  any  woman 
since  I  have  learnt  what  this  cough  of  mine  signifies; 
but  Lilla  !  how  can  I  make  her  my  wife,  and  condemn 
her  to  exile  in  a  colonial  village  for  the  rest  of  her 
days  ?  Lilla,  to  whom  the  world  means  London  and 
"mamma" ! 

"Go  to  the  Cape,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  live  for  years.  You  say  you  are  a  liter- 
ary man;  you  can  work  as  well  there  as  here.  But 
to  remain  in  England  will  kill  you." 

I  hear  the  words  still.  Still?  They  have  been 
beating  in  my  head  ever  since  I  walked  out  of  the 
consulting-room,  and  stared  at  the  street  that  had 
altered  somehow.  I  must  go  to  the  house  this  after- 
noon, and  tell  her.  But  it  is  our  "good-bye,"  and 
she  loves  me;  it  is  a  horrible  duty.  I  may  break 
down  myself.  I  wonder  if  she  will  ever  marry  any- 

266 


POSTHUMOUS  267 

body  else  now;  if  it  is  selfish?  I  would  not  say  it 
to  anyone,  of  course,  it  would  sound  ridiculous — 
but  I  don't  think  that  many  people  can  care  for  each 

other  so  much  as  Lilla  and  I  do. 

***** 

I  believed  I  could  write.  I  am  no  more  able  to 
express  the  love  I  feel  for  this  beautiful  wife  of 
mine,  the  supreme  tranquillity  of  our  life  together, 
than  I  am  able  to  describe  a  perfume !  I  try  to  tell 
her  sometimes,  but  the  words  won't  come — even  to 
Lilla,  who  is  no  critic,  who  cares  nothing  for  the 
phrasing,  and  only  for  the  sense.  We  have  been 
married  six  months.  How  can  I  show  myself  grate- 
ful enough  to  her  for  the  sacrifice  she  has  made? 
If  ever  I  should  be  tempted  to  be  irritable  or  impa- 
tient, I  need  merely  recall  that  afternoon  in  Eng- 
land, when  the  tears  ran  down  her  white  face,  and 
she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  declaring  she 
would  be  my  wife  in  spite  of  everything,  that  the 
exile  was  preferable  to  our  parting. 

We  have  a  little  villa  here  in  Wynberg,  with  a 
garden  hidden  from  the  road  behind  gigantic  cacti. 
It  is  very  quiet,  but  the  climate  is  exquisite;  I  feel 
a  new  man  under  this  sky  which  has  the  deep  blue 
colour  of  the  sea  we  saw  around  Madeira.  My 
writing-table  is  screened  from  too  great  a  glare  by 
the  foliage  of  a  huge  camelia  tree;  and  a  French 
window  opens  on  to  the  stoep,  where  Lilla  sits,  in 
soft  white  frocks,  and  reads  or  works,  until  I  join 


268  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

her.  In  the  evening  we  wander  out,  like  two  chil- 
dren, to  explore — and  lose  ourselves — or  buy  an 
enormous  basket  of  purple  grapes  from  one  of  the 
neighbouring  vineyards  for  a  shilling,  going  back 
to  eat  them  on  the  lawn,  under  the  stars,  while  we 
watch  the  fireflies  glinting  in  the  hedge,  or  a  "bush 
fire,"  bright  for  miles,  burning  on  the  heights  of 
Table  Mountain. 

It  was  awfully  silly,  because  I  knew;  but  I  have 
just  said  to  her — 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  right  at  the  back  of 
your  head  you  aren't  thinking  all  this  a  tiny  bit  dull, 
Lilla?" 

If  ever  there  was  an  Angel  upon  earth 1  am 

not  in  banishment,  I  am  in  Paradise ! 

***** 

I  have  been  working  very  hard.  It  is  pleasant  to 
remember  that  my  last  book  made  a  success  at  Home, 
now  that  I  am  engaged  on  another.  I  read  some 
chapters  yesterday  to  Lilla — she  liked  them.  How 
fortunate  it  is  she  does  take  an  interest  in  my  pro- 
fession! Unless  you  go  to  Government  House 
(which  we  don't)  the  society  here  is  desperately  lim- 
ited; an  ordinary  girl  accustomed  to  London  gaieties 
would  bore  herself  to  death.  Even  as  it  is,  I  can't 
help  asking  myself  sometimes  if  she  is  as  contented 
as  she  says  she  is.  I  dare  say  I  am  mistaken,  but 
now  and  then  I  have  fancied  she  is  moping  a  trifle. 
I  pray  I  am  mistaken ;  it  would  be  a  terrible  reproach 


POSTHUMOUS  269 

to  me  otherwise!  The  mail  is  just  in,  and  she  is 
reading  her  mother's  letter;  after  her  mother's  let- 
ters I  always  think  she  looks  dissatisfied.  However, 
I  am  inclined  to  be  hypersensitive,  no  doubt;  under 
the  circumstances  it  is  natural.  I  expect,  if  I  put 
it  to  her,  nobody  would  laugh  more  merrily  than 

Lilla  at  my  "mare's  nest"  I 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  second  anniversary  of  our  wedding-day !  We 
indulged  in  a  little  jaunt  to  Sea  View,  and  dined  at 
an  hotel.  Not  so  lively  as  I  should  have  liked  to 
make  it  for  her,  but  the  resources  are  few,  and  the 
programme  was  the  best  I  could  devise.  A  man 
certainly  assumes  a  great  responsibility  when  he  al- 
lows a  young  girl  to  agree  to  live  abroad  with  him 
all  her  life;  if  she  is  tired  of  it,  I  cannot  blame  her! 
If  it  were  a  pecuniary  interest  simply  that  I  sacrificed, 
I  would  take  her  back  to  England  to-morrow,  but, 
meaning  what  it  does,  it  would  be  an  outrage  on  her 
tenderness  to  suggest  such  a  thing.  The  novel  is 
progressing  very  well;  in  fact,  it  is  nearly  finished. 
A  few  more  chapters,  and  it  will  be  ready  for  the 

mail. 

***** 

Lilla  had  spoken  rather  slightingly  of  the  physi- 
cian's opinion  once  or  twice  of  late.  Nothing  tan- 
gible— it  was  more  her  manner  than  her  words — but 
it  has  made  me  wonder,  supposing  I  did  propose  to 
return  with  her,  whether  she  might  not  be  willing 


270  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

to  agree.  It  is  a  shameful  thought  to  have ;  I  know 
I  am  unjust  to  her  in  harbouring  it,  only  I  can't  get 
rid  of  it  quite;  it  sticks,  and  writhes  at  odd  moments. 
She  is  in  the  garden — I  have  just  been  to  the  window, 
and  she  smiled.  When  I  look  at  her,  I  hate  myself 
that  I  can  wrong  her  so  deeply  as  to  imagine  she 
would  consent !  My  novel  is  done,  but  I  do  not  feel 
so  exhilarated  as  I  ought.  I  am  restless,  I  cannot 
get  the  doubt  out  of  my  mind.  I  know  she  would 
refuse,  and  yet 

She  is  back  on  the  stoep;  she  is  embroidering  in 
a  deck  chair;  I  can  see  the  shadow  of  her  figure  on 
the  floor.  I  will  put  the  question  to  her,  I  will  say 
to  her,  "Let  us  go  Home !" — I  have  said  it. 

There  is  a  silence  while  I  count  my  heart-beats. 
Two  reels  of  silk  clatter  from  her  lap  to  the  ground, 
and  roll  along  the  boards ;  and  then  her  voice  comes, 
broken  with  delight — 

"You  darling!    Oh,  how  Htavenly!"  gasps  Lilla. 

I  have  added  "Fin"  to  the  last  page. 


NEMESIS 

HE  was  a  very  good  boy,  but  he  had  an  ideal — 
that  was  what  ruined  him.  In  his  early  youth  he 
had  been  fascinated  by  the  short  story  "From  the 
French,"  and  the  aim  of  his  life  was  to  mould 
himself  upon  the  hero. 

These  short  stories  are  always  imparted  by  a 
young  gentleman,  against  his  will,  to  a  guest  who  has 
admired  the  study  of  a  woman's  head  which  he  keeps 
in  his  portfolio,  and  "starts  visibly  to  perceive."  He 
always  exclaims  that  he  did  not  know  it  was  there 
— though  it  sounds  unlikely — and  then  sits  lost  in 
thought,  to  "rouse  himself  with  an  effort,"  and  com- 
municate its  romantic  history  without  tautology  or 
hesitation.  The  literary  man  who  bites  his  pen,  be- 
tween his  paragraphs,  is  envious  of  this  achievement. 

Young  Mr.  Pettifer  was  envious,  albeit  not  a  liter- 
ary man — he  was  a  clerk  in  a  ship-broker's  office — 
and  though  he  had  no  excuse  for  purchasing  a  port- 
folio, he  did  as  well  as  he  could  without  one. 

When  any  other  of  the  clerks  paid  a  visit  to 
Pettifer's  lodging,  there  was  generally  a  cheap  pho- 
tograph lying  where  it  would  be  noticed,  and  as  soon 
as  Pettifer  was  asked  about  the  original,  he  would 

271 


272  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

make  an  ostentatious  attempt  to  conceal  it,  and  mur- 
mur gloomily,  "Don't  question  me,  my  friend !" 

He  had  a  habit  of  displaying  sudden  emotion,  also, 
at  the  chance  mention  of  any  place  or  year,  so  that 
if  conversation  touched  upon  Ashton-under-Lyne,  or 
eighty-seven,  Pettifer  would  be  the  startled  prey  to 
acute  recollections,  and  gaze  with  a  far-away  air 
into  his  buried  past.  A  blind  beggar  under  the 
window,  with  a  penny  whistle,  could  frequently  re- 
vive such  painful  associations  in  his  mind  that  he  was 
obliged  to  hurry  from  the  room. 

The  trouble  with  him  was  that  he  had  no  imagina- 
tion: he  was  unable  to  sustain  his  imitation  of  the 
hero.  When  a  sympathetic  accountant  pressed  him 
for  particulars,  his  narrative  was  bald,  and  lacked 
probability.  He  hinted  at  sufferings  in  a  northern 
town  at  a  date  when  the  accountant  knew  he  had 
been  in  Bermondsey.  And  he  acquired  photographs 
that  might  be  bought  at  the  print-shops,  and  which 
stamped  him  a  liar.  So  he  was  chaffed,  and  unhappy, 
and  cast  about  him  for  means  to  confound  the 
scoffers. 

The  "means"  occurred  presently  in  the  form  of  a 
damsel  who  dispensed  buns  and  poached  eggs  in  an 
"A.  B.  C." — initials  which  might  appropriately  stand 
for  "Awfully  bad  coffee,"  but  do  not.  She  permitted 
Pettifer  to  offer  her  little  attentions;  detailed,  she 
accepted  "button-holes"  from  him,  and  let  him  shake 
hands  with  her  when  he  left.  Her  Christian  name 


NEMESIS  273 

was  Sarah,  for  which  Pettifer  was  sorry;  but  she 
was  a  pretty  girl — the  only  pretty  girl  ever  discov- 
ered in  an  "A.  B.  C."  shop — and  he  always  thought 
of  her  without  the  "h."  Impatience  to  obtain  her 
likeness,  with  a  tender  signature  at  the  back,  used 
to  keep  him  awake  at  night,  but  things  were  a  long 
time  progressing  so  far  as  that,  and  in  the  mean- 
while the  incredulity  about  him  continued  to  wound 
his  self-respect. 

By-and-by,  however,  she  consented  to  walk  once 
round  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  with  him  before  she  took 
the  'bus  home,  and  a  week  or  so  after  that  he  sug- 
gested the  Crystal  Palace  and  fire-works.  Sarah  said 
she  didn't  know  "if  mother  would  like  her  to,"  but 
she  would  ascertain.  For  herself — she  blushed. 

"Mother"  apparently  had  no  objection,  and  they 
went — in  hansoms,  and  first-class  compartments.  He 
soon  began  to  find  he  was  spending  more  money  than 
he  could  afford,  and  revelled  in  the  knowledge.  This 
was  as  it  should  be,  he  felt.  If  she  neglected  him 
at  tea-time,  he  went  out  in  the  evening,  and  drank 
two  glasses  of  beer  desperately,  and  hoped  he  would 
look  haggard  and  dissipated  when  he  presented  him- 
self at  the  office  next  day.  He  complained  of  the 
sparseness  of  opportunities  for  talking  to  her  alone, 
and  she  answered  that  there  were  "plenty  of  inks 
and  paper."  Stimulated  by  their  abundance  and  the 
reminder,  he  wrote  Sarah  many  passionate  epistles, 
for  the  rapture  of  having  love-letters  in  reply,  to 


274  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

leave  on  his  mantelpiece.  He  smiled  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  he  was  vindicating  his  veracity  nobly, 
and  at  this  stage  produced- overwhelming  evidence 
to  crush  his  detractors  to  the  earth. 

But  he  was  not  fond  of  her  at  all;  that  is  the  point 
of  it.  He  did  not  dislike  her,  he  was  deeply  grateful 
to  her,  but  as  to  being  in  love  with  her,  not  an. 
atom!  After  he  had  begged  for  the  likeness,  and 
received  it,  and  everybody  knew  about  her,  he  pro- 
posed to  retire  from  the  acquaintance.  Only  he 
had  reckoned  without  Sarah.  Sarah  said  she  had 
always  understood  they  were  engaged  to  be  married 
— and  so  had  "mother."  She  told  him  that  men 
could  not  trifle  with  young  girls'  affections  as  he 
seemed  to  suppose,  and  inquired  how  much  he  would 
like  his  letters  to  her  read  in  court.  There  was  such 
a  thing  as  "Lor,"  she  said  mistakenly. 

Pettifer  turned  a  light  shade  of  green,  and  sur- 
rendered to  pressure.  To  do  him  justice,  he  framed 
the  best  tale  he  could  out  of  the  circumstances,  but 
the  materials  were  scanty,  and  would  not  have  lent 
themselves  to  much  embroidering  even  by  defter  fin- 
gers. Two  or  three  of  us  had  dropped  into  his 
diggings  one  night,  and  his  melancholy  was  so  very 
unfeigned  that  somebody  commented  on  it,  and 
demanded  explanations. 

Young  Pettifer  shuddered,  and  then  got  up  with 
a  valiant  effort  to  realise  the  hero  at  the  moment 
when  he  "rises  from  his  chair,  and  silently  unlock- 


NEMESIS  275 

ing  the  escritoire  between  the  windows,  takes  from  it 
a  faded  miniature."  He  took  Sarah's  likeness  out 
of  his  chest-of-drawers,  and  held  it  up. 

"This,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "is  a  portrait  of  the 
lady  who  to-morrow  will  become  my  wife !" 

It  was  dramatic;  and  we  all  congratulated  him, 
and  had  whisky-and-water.  The  truth  only  leaked 
out  afterwards.  It  was  an  awful  punishment  to  over- 
take a  harmless  liar.  Sarah  has  developed  into 
rather  a  shrewish  little  person  to-day,  and  her  pret- 
tiness  is  more  of  the  housemaid  kind  than  ever.  Her 
jealousy  of  her  lord  has  certainly  subdued  his  ten- 
dency to  leave  photographs  about  his  rooms;  but 
those  who  liked  poor  Pettifer  are  inclined  to  pro- 
nounce the  remedy  worse  than  the  complaint.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  state  that  this  story  is  designed  to  be 
included  in  a  Sunday-school  book;  the  moral  is  so 
obvious  that  its  destiny  is  assured. 


A  ROMANCE  OF  A   COFFEE-STALL 

IT  was  as  unpretentious  a  little  coffee-stall  as  could 
be.  Almost  the  last  thing  in  the  world  you  would 
have  thought  of  connecting  with  a  romance,  or,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  have  done  so  much  as  think 
about  at  all.  No  polished  copper-boiler  beamed 
seductively  upon  the  cab-stand  opposite  to  enhance 
its  natural  attractions;  no  new-fangled,  patent 
double  burner,  flinging  a  meretricious  radiance  across 
the  hunks  of  stale  bread-and-butter,  professionally 
known  as  "door-steps,"  tended  to  relieve  its  gloom. 
Night  after  night,  for  ten  years,  it  had  stood  at 
the  same  corner,  as  invariably  as  the  lamp-post;  and 
night  after  night,  during  the  last  three,  its  outcast- 
clientele  of  the  homeless  and  the  half-starved,  creep- 
ing to  its  shelter  from  the  thoroughfares  beyond, 
had  never  failed  to  notice  the  peculiar  fact  that  the 
proprietor's  eyes  were  always  the  most  hungry  in 
the  crowd.  Ravenous  wretches,  whose  choice  of  a 
lodging  lay  between  the  bridges  and  the  casual-ward, 
remarked  it  with  astonishment;  women  with  terrible 
faces  that  had  once  been  innocent,  commented  upon 
it  amongst  themselves;  it  passed  into  a  byword  in 
time — "As  hungry  as  Daddy  Doorsteps'  eyes  I" 

276 


A   ROMANCE   OF   A    COFFEE   STALL  277 

The  man  interested  me  from  the  beginning;  there 
was  a  something  so  patient,  and  yet  so  hopeless  in 
his  gaze,  which  haunted  me  almost  against  my  will. 
An  unaccountable  fascination  in  an  indolent  life,  but 
after  that  occasion  when  I  first  saw  him  peering  out 
into  the  darkness,  I  used  often  to  stroll  southward 
from  the  club  before  returning  to  my  rooms,  and 
once  in  the  small  hours,  when  trade  was  slack,  and 
the  snow  lay  thick  upon  the  London  pavements,  he 
told  me  his  story — if  it  can  be  called  one — told  it 
so  simply  that  I  think  he  only  made  it  more  pathetic, 
and  then  I  knew  why  "Daddy  Doorsteps'  "  eyes  were 
always  hungry,  and  what  it  was  they  sought. 

"I'm  looking  for  my  girl,  sir !"  he  said,  wistfully — 
"her  who  left  me  three  years  ago,  and  I  haven't 
never  heard  on  since. 

'Take  care  of  our  child,  Joe,'  said  her  mother, 
'when  I'm  gone !'    And  I  promised  her  I  would. 

"Milly  was  a  little  bit  of  a  thing  then,  as  the 
neighbours  used  to  call  'pretty  baby,'  not  old  enough 
to  understand.  But  as  she  grew  up,  and  the  name 
seemed  to  fit  her  just  the  same,  she  was  still  known 
as  'Baby'  down  the  court;  and  we  was  everything  to 
one  another,  Baby  and  me ! 

"Folks  said  I  spoilt  the  lass,  and  made  a  lady  of 
her,  but  I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  her  going  out 
to  service,  and  getting  them  soft  white  hands  of 
hers  rough  with  work.  It  sounds  strange,  I  dessay, 


278  THIS   STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

sir,  my  feeling  like  that — me  not  being  a  gentleman, 
neither — but  it  was  just  a  common  man's  pride. 

"So  she  teased  me  to  let  her  earn  some  money 
by  sitting  to  the  artist  people  instead;  models  got 
a  living  so  easy,  she  had  heard,  and  besides,  we  could 
be  together  that  way  much  the  same ! 

"That's  how  it  was  that  one  summer  evening, 
when  she  came  in,  she  brought  a  pictur'  with  her, 
painted  by  some  swell  who  had  seen  her  in  the  stu- 
dios. He  was_only  an  amateur,  she  said,  and  had 
told  her  she  might  keep  it  for  herself.  It  was  her 
own  portrait.  Not  as  I  had  ever  seen  her — quite 
different,  and  grand,  with  a  great  bunch  of  yellow 
roses  on  her  bosom,  and  pearls  twisted  in  her  hair. 

"I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  my  little  girl  right 
off! 

"  'Why,  Baby,'  I  says,  laughing,  'I  didn't  know 
you  was  so  beautiful  as  this !' 

"  'Didn't  you,  father?'  she  says,  curious-like,  and 
turning  away.  'Perhaps  that's  only  how  he  sees 
me!' 

"She  hung  it  over  the  mantel-shelf;  but  I  never 
got  fairly  comfortable  with  that  pictur'  a-looking 
down  on  me;  it  spoilt  my  smoke,  sir,  just  as  if  a 
stranger  was  always  in  the  parlour — a  stranger  there 
was  no  getting  friendly  with!  Them  smiling  lips 
was  very  lovely,  of  course,  but  it  wasn't  my  Baby's 
smile,  and  I  fancied  her  best  in  the  old  stuff  gown 
she  used  to  wear  at  home. 


A   ROMANCE   OF   A    COFFEE    STALL  279 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  been  blind,  for  I  never 
thought  of  harm,  not  though  she  used  to  be  gayer 
now  than  I  had  ever  known  her,  and  of  a  sudden 
drop  down  into  a  chair  so  quiet  that  I  was  frightened 
she  was  ill.  One  day,  when  I  kissed  her,  she  burst 
out  sobbing,  and  asked  me  about  her  mother. 

"  'You  haven't  never  missed  your  mother,  Milly, 
have  you?'  I  said — 'her  you  can't  remember?  You 
haven't  been  unhappy  nor  lonely,  dearie,  with  me?' 

"  'You've  been  father  and  mother,  too,  daddy,' 
she  says,  sorrowful-like,  and  putting  her  arms  round 
my  neck;  'the  kindest  father  a  girl  ever  had !' 

"I've  often  been  glad  to  call  up  them  words  of 
hers  since,  for  that  was  the  night  she  went.  'Gone 
away,'  so  her  letter  said,  'with  the  man  who  loved 
her,  and  had  solemnly  swore  to  make  her  his  lawful 
wife.'  Her  dead  mother  heard  that  oath,  sir,  and 
Heaven  will  judge  him  now  he's  broke  it! — for  only 
shame  could  keep  her  silent. 

"I  don't  live  in  that  house  no  more — the  furthest 
place  that  I  could  find  was  homelier  than  home  when 
she  was  gone ;  but  I  still  held  on  to  the  old  stall — I'm 
a-waiting  here  for  her! 

"And  some  time  when  that  villain  has  abandoned 
her,  and  she's  in  this  big,  cruel  city  all  alone — maybe 
with  a  little  child  upon  the  breast  where  he  once 
put  them  yellow  roses — she'll  think  of  her  poor  old 
father,  and  come  home,  to  be  forgiven,  and  to 
rest.  .  .  .  Are  you  going,  sir?" 


280'  THIS    STAGE    OF    FOOLS 

Yes,  I  was  going.  The  tale  was  told;  the  stars 
were  growing  fainter  in  the  sky;  and  in  the  chilly 
light  of  dawn  I  saw  the  man  was  crying.  I  looked 
back  once;  his  was  the  solitary  figure  in  the  deserted 
street — he  was  watching  for  her  still.  Only  death 
will  end  his  vigil;  only  death  can  give  the  wanderer 
back  to  him  again.  Stunned  and  conscience-stricken, 
I  knew  it!  For  /  had  been  the  villain  of  whom  he 
spoke,  and  to  the  "rest"  which  is  eternal,  his  baby 
already  had — gone  "home." 


A  REVERIE 

REBECCA  is  in  the  bedroom,  dressing,  and  Lucy — 
who  looked  very  sweet  in  her  simple  frock — has  gone 
to  some  entertainment  at  her  school.  So  I  am  alone. 
The  armchair  is  very  soft,  and  the  room  is  quiet, 
though  overhead  I  can  hear  my  wife  faintly  as  she 
moves  to  and  fro  between  the  wardrobe  and  the 
toilet-table.  Her  feet  are  heavy.  I  am  glad  that 
she  is  going  to  the  Jacobs's.  It  will  be  a  rare  treat 
to  me  to  spend  the  evening  by  myself.  The  fire  sel- 
dom burns  so  clearly,  I  think,  as  it  does  now,  and  my 
cigar  tastes  better  than  usual.  Rebecca  makes  me 
sick;  she  is  so  fat,  and  her  laugh — Gottf  her  laugh 
means  so  little;  and  all  my  nerves  jump  when  it 
shakes  her.  Yet  a  good  woman!  and  once  she  did 
not  irritate  me.  Nor,  had  she  not  been  good, 
would  she  irritate  me  now.  That  is  a  fact;  few 
wives  would  have  done  as  much  as  she  did.  I 
ought  to  remember  it,  but,  instead,  she  makes  me 

remember 

Himmel!  how  one  smokes  when  one  thinks !  Let 
me  have  the  box  beside  me.  In  the  tobacco-wreaths 
I  see  myself  as  I  was  fifteen  years  ago;  and  I  see 

281 


282,  THIS    STAGE   OF    FOOLS 

the  apartment  in  which  I  lived  with  Dora.  How 
small  it  was  1 — on  the  first  floor  of  a  lodging-house ! 
But  with  its  refinements  also,  the  pretty,  little,  inex- 
pensive trifles  which  girls  like  Dora  purchase  and 
contrive.  Why  did  I  not  marry  Dora  ?  My  parents 
would  have  been  horrified — she  was  a  Christian;  I 
cannot  think  of  any  other  reason,  though  at  the  time 
reasons  must  certainly  have  appeared  numerous  to 
me,  for  I  do  not  recollect  that  the  idea  of  marriage 
with  her  ever  disturbed  my  peace.  Perhaps  because 
she  did  not  worry  me  with  entreaties!  She  had 
been  very  poor  and  friendless  when  I  met  her;  she 
may  have  fancied,  in  her  sensitiveness,  it  would  be 
ingratitude  to  ask  me  for  more  than  I  had  done. 
And  she  loved  me;  oh,  yes,  she  loved  me  dearly! 
And  the  business  was  my  father's  in  his  lifetime; 
I  could  not  have  afforded  to  displease  him.  She 
must  have  known  that!  She  must  have  known  I 
could  not  quarrel  with  him,  even  if  I  had  wished, 

though  I  did  not 

Fervently,  although  it  is  all  past,  and  the  shrub 
that  was  planted  on  her  grave  has  grown  big  beyond 
the  railings,  I  hope  she  did  not  grieve;  I  have  won- 
dered many  times — since!  She  was  so  gentle  and 
— I  will  say  it — pure,  that  it  has  seemed  to  me  she 
must  often  have  suffered  while  she  smiled  and  kissed 
me.  And  she  died,  and  was  buried,  and  the  child — 
the  baby  Lucy — was  given  to  strangers  to  be  nursed. 
How  long  ago  it  feels — in  another  life.  But  I  wish 


A    REVERIE  283 

that  Lucy  might  have  called  me  "Papa !"  .  .  . 
Where  are  the  lights ;  my  cigar  is  out! 

Rebecca :  She  was  slimmer  when  her  family  made 
up  the  match  between  us.  Yes,  and  good-looking; 
and  my  sorrow  for  Dora  was  faded — two  or  three 
years  had  past.  I  was  already  my  own  master,  and 
trade  was  brisk.  I  was  happy  with  Rebecca.  I  gave 
her  many  diamonds,  and  the  other  women  envied 
her,  and  at  home  we  got  on  very  well.  If  we  had 
had  children  of  our  own,  I  wonder ? 

Lucy  was  four  when  Rebecca  took  her.  She  asked 
no  questions;  to  this  day  she  has  never  asked  me 
anything.  It  shows  a  big  heart  I  She  is  like  a  mother 
to  Lucy.  Shall  I  ever  forget  how  grateful  I  was ! 
The  tears  came  to  my  eyes  when  she  said  "yes." 
She  should  be  worshipped  for  such  a  generosity — 
but  Lucy  reminds  me  so  of  Dora. 

Not  at  first — ah,  no;  just  a  little  thing  not  able  to 
talk  plainly  yet!  It  was  afterwards,  quite  lately, 
that  I  noticed  the  wonderful  resemblance.  She  is 
fourteen  already — a  tall,  slim  girl,  with  the  tiniest 
hands  to  be  conceived,  and  with  every  move  she 
brings  back  Dora  before  my  eyes.  She  has  the  same 
features,  the  same  trick  of  smiling  sometimes  with 
the  mouth  a  little  to  one  side;  she  grows  more  like 
Dora  every  day.  There  are  hours  when  I  look  at 
her  across  the  table  when  my  wife  and  she  and  I 
sit  at  meals  together,  and  my  throat  gets  tight.  The 
past  is  suddenly  alive  again  to  me,  and  I  would 


284  THIS   STAGE   OF   FOOLS 

spring  up  and  put  my  arms  round  her  neclc,  but 
Rebecca  might  guess  the  truth,  and  it  would  pain 
her  to  the  heart  if  she  suspected.  Yet  it  is  true, 
and  I  cannot  help  it,  that  in  the  child  who  reminds 
me  of  the  dead  so  vividly  my  wife  has  a  rival  here 
on  our  very  hearth.  It  is  Lucy,  whom  she  con- 
sented to  adopt,  who  shows  me  innocently  that  my 
wife  is  fat  and  silly;  it  is  Lucy,  who,  as  I  watch  her 
at  her  lessons,  recalls  to  me  the  thoughtful  face  of 
the  girl  I  used  to  love.  And  I  regret!  Ah,  the 
good  Gott  forgive  me,  but  I  regret  with  all  the  soul 
of  me,  and  would  be  young  once  more,  with  Dora 
by  my  side,  and  see  her  by  my  side  to-day!  .  .  . 
How  warm  it  has  become!  the  window  should  be 
open  such  a  night.  .  .  .  Rebecca  has  come  down- 
stairs. She  wears  her  black  satin,  and  powders  her 
nose  again  before  the  mirror.  She  persuades  me  to 
accompany  her;  I  shall  be  "dull  alone?" 

"My  head  aches;  otherwise Adieu,  enjoy 

yourself,  my  dearest  1" 


THE   END 


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